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Full text of "The complete works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge : with an introductory essay upon his philosophical and theological opinions"

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"«OM  T„H  L,a„.,„,-  „p 


(CUu  M  ,tn) 


'  J"""!-  «.  191! 







Vol.  VI L 





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JAN.  22,  1918 

Filtered,  aooording  to  Act  of  CongreM.  in  the  year  uiie  tliousaod 
eigbt  Imnlred  aiul  fifty-three,  by 

TTarper  &  BUUIUEIU, 

in  the  Clerk 'j  Ofiice  of  the  District  Court  of  tlic  Soathero  District 

of  Now  York. 

A  ; 









GoHPOSiTiONB  retemblia^  those  of  the  presBitt  volume  are  nol 
nnfrequently  condemned  for  their  querulous  egotism.  But  ego- 
tism ia  to  be  condemned  then  only  when  it  oSends  agaiiist  time 
and  place,  as  in  a  histoiy  or  an  cpie  poem.  To  censure  it  in  ■ 
monody  or  sonnet  is  almost  as  absurd  as  to  dislike  a  circle  for 
being  round.  Why  then  write  Sonnets  or  Monodies  ?  Because 
they  give  mo  pleasure  when  perhaps  nothing  else  could.  AAcr 
the  more  violent  emotions  of  sorrow,  the  mind  demands  amuse- 
ment, and  can  find  it  in  employment  alone  :  but  full  of  its  late 
sufleringa,  it  can  endure  no  employment  not  in  some  inessiire 
connected  with  them.  Forcibly  to  turn  away  our  atteniioa  to 
general  subjects  is  a  painful  and  oiicn  a  most  unavailing  effort. 

"  But  0  t  honr  graterul  to  a  wounded  heart 
The  tale  of  misery  to  iuipnrt — 
From  olhem'  ejei  bid  artless  sorrows  tlnw, 
Aud  raise  esteem  upon  the  base  of  woe  1" 

The  eomniQnicativenees  of  our  nature  leads  us  to  describe  our 
own  sorrows  ;  in  the  endeavor  to  describe  them,  intellectual  ac- 
tivity is  exerted  ;  and  from  intellectual  activity  there  results  a 
pleuore,  which  is  gradually  aHsociated.  and  mingles  as  a  corree- 
live,  with  the  painful  subject  of  the  description.  "  True  '."  {it 
may  be  answered)  "  but  how  is  the  Public  interested  in  your 
forrowB  or  your  description  7"  We  are  forever  attributing  per- 
•onal  unities  to  imaginary  aggregates.  What  is  the  Public,  but 
"  To  the  first  and  leeond  editinni 



But  a  living  writer  is  yet  sub  judice  ;  and  if  we  can  not  follow 
his  conceptions  or  enter  into  his  feelings,  it  is  more  consoling  to 
our  pride  to  consider  him  as  lost  beneath,  than  as  soaring  above 
us.  If  any  man  expect  from  my  poems  the  same  easiness  of  style 
which  he  admires  in  a  drinking-song,  for  him  I  have  not  written, 
lotellig^bilia,  non  intellectum  adfero. 

I  expect  neither  profit  nor  general  fame  by  my  writings  ;  and 
L  consider  myself  as  having  been  amply  repaid  without  either. 
Poetry  has  been  to  me  its  own  "  exceeding  great  reward  :"  it  has 
soothed  my  afflictions  ;  it  has  multiplied  and  refined  my  enjoy- 
ments ;  it  has  endeared  solitude  ;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit 
of  wishing  to  discover  the  Good  and  the  Beautiful  in  all  that 

meets  and  surrounds  me. 

S.  T,  O. 



0«lMTieTe n 

Sonnel.    To  the  Autumnal  M<ion 17 

Anibem  for  tliaCliiUreo  of  Chriai'a  Hospital IS 

nmc,  rMl  anJ  iioBginary 19 

Monody  on  Die  DeAfh  of  CliHtterloo 16 

Songs  of  the  Piiica 34 

The  lUiveo 27 

Dennshire  Roula S9 

Iniide  the  Coadi 30 

MktlitfniBtical  Problem SI 

Tho  Hose 33 

Honodjr  «t  m  Tes-kottle >H 

Abunee,  a  Fsrowelt  Ode S« 

Sonnet.    On  lie«»ing  School B« 

To  the  Hue '. S7 

With  FicldlDg'i  AmelU 87 

SontieL     On  hearing  that  hia  Sistpr'n  Duath  vns  inevitable 38 

On  leenig  a  Youth  nfFeetionHtely  n-vlcometl  by  &  Sister 3S 

Line*  on  nn  Autumnal  Eve 

The  Rose 

The  Kua 

To  a  Young  Au 


Dmneetk  Peace 





Epitaph  on  aa  Infiint 4'i 

On  ImitatioD 60 

Honor 60 

Progress  of  Vice 6S 

lines  Written  at  the  Kingfs  Arms,  Ross 62 

Destruction  of  the  Bastilc 6S 

lines  to  a  beautiful  Spring  in  a  YilUige 64 

^  On  a  Friend  who  Died  of  a  Frenzy  Fever  induced  by  calumnious 

reports 65 

To  a  Young  Lady,  'with  a  Poem  on  the  French  RevolutioD. 67 

Sonnet  L  '*  My  Heart  has  Thanked  thee,  Bowles" 68 

•            II.  "  As  late  I  lay  in  Slumber's  Shadowy  Vale* 69 

IIL  "  Though  roused  by  that  dark  vizir  Riot  rude" 69 

■  IV.  "  When  British  Freedom  from  a  Happier  LuxT 69 

V.  "  It  was  some  Spirit,  Sheridan  T 60 

VL  "  0  what  a  loud  and  fearful  shriek" 60 

VIL  "AswhenfaroflF" 61 

VIIL  "Thou  gentle  look" 61 

IX.  "Pale  Roamer  through  the  Night  r 62 

X.  "  Sweet  Mercy  T 62 

XL  "Thou  Bleedest,  my  Poor  Heart'' 62 

XIL  To  the  Author  of  the  Robbers 63 

Lines,  composed  while  climbing  Brockley  Coomb 63 

Lines  in  the  manner  of  Spenser 64 

Imitated  from  Osstan 65 

The  Complaint  of  Ninathoma 66 

Imitated  from  the  WeUh 66 

To  an  Infant 67 

Lines  in  Answer  to  a  Letter  from  Bristol 67 

To  a  Friend  in  Answer  to  a  melancholy  Letter 70 

Religious  Musings 71 

The  Destiny  of  Nations — a  Vision 83 

Klises •  97 

To  the  Nightingale 97 

To  Charles  Lamb 98 

Casimir  ad  hvrani 99 

Darwiniuna 100 

Epigram 101 

On  the  Christening  of  a  Friend's  Child 101 

lines  written  at  Shurton  Bars,  near  Bridgewater 10? 




Ode  to  the  Departing  Year 109 

France — an  Ode 114 

Fears  in  Solitude 117 

Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter 128 

Love 126 

Introduction  to  the  Tale  of  the  Dork  Ladie 129 

The  Ballad  of  the  Dark  Ladie.    A  Fragment 180 

Lewti,  or  the  Ciroasaian  Love  Chant 132 

The  Picture,  or  the  Lover's  Resolution 134 

The  Night  Scene.    A  Dramatic  Fragment 139 

To  an  Unfortunate  Woman 142 

To  an  Unfortunate  Woman  at  the  Theatre 142 

Lines  composed  in  a  Concert  Room 143 

The  Keepsake 144 

To  a  Lady,  with  Falconer's  Shipwreck 146 

To  a  Young  Lady  on  her  recovery  from  a  Fever 147 

Something  Childish,  but  very  Natural 147 

Home-sick :  'written  in  Germany 148 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question 148 

A  Child's  Evening  Prayer 149 

The  Visionary  Hope 149 

The  Happy  Husband 150 

Recollections  of  Love 161 

On  revisiting  the  Sea-shore 162 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni * 163 

lines  written  in  the  Album  at  Elbingerode  in  the  Harta  Forest. .   166 

On  observing  a  Blossom  on  the  Firbt  of  February 167 

i^The  iEolian  Harp 158 

Reflections  on  having  left  a  place  of  retirement 160 

To  the  Rev.  George  Coleridge 162 

Inscription  for  a  Fountain  on  a  Heath 164 

A  Tombleas  Epitaph 164 

Tliis  lime  Tree  Bower  my  Prison 166 

To  a  Friend,  who  had  declared  his  inti'ntion  of  writing  no  more 

Poetry 168 

To  William  Wordsworth,  composed  on  the  night  after  his  recita- 
tion of  a  Poem  on  the  Growth  of  an  Individual  Mind 169 

The  Nightingale 178 

Froet  at  Midnight 176 

The  Three  Graves \*\% 

DejectloD.    An  Ode Wi 

•  • 



SaTLLUiK  Lkatk& 

Ode  to  Georgiana,  Duofaees  of  DeroDshtre 1 V4 

Ode  to  TraDquillity 1»6 

To  a  Young  Friend,  on  his  proposing  to  Domesticate  with  the  Author  1 97 

Lines  to  W.  L.  while  he  sang  a  Song  to  Purcell's  Musio 199 

Addressed  to  a  Young  Man  of  Fortune 200 

Sonnet    To  the  River  Otter 200 

Compoeed  on  a  Journey  homeward,  after  hearing  of  the 

Birth  of  a  Son 201 

Sonnet    To  a  Friend 201 

The  Virgin's  Cradle  Hymn 202 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant 202 

Melancholy.     A  Fragment 208 

TeU's  Birth  Pkce 208 

A  Christmas  Carol 204 

Human  Life 206 

Moles 207 

The  Visit  of  the  Gods 207 

Elegy :  imitated  from  Akenside T 208 

Separation 209 

On  taking  Leave  of 209 

The  Pang  more  sharp  than  all 210 

^    KublaKhan 212 

The  Pains  of  Sleep 214 

Limbo 215 

Ne  plus  ultra. 216 

Apologetic  Preface  to  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter 217 

The  AxaENT  Mariner. 

Part  1 229 

II 232 

III 233 

IV^ 236 

V 288 

VI 242 

VIL 245 

Obrlstabku     Part  1 249 

Conclusion  to  Part  1 267 

Part  II 259 

Oooclusion  to  Pftrt  II 267 



Alice  duCloe;  or  tho  Forked  TuogoeL    A  Ballad 271 

Tbs  Knight's  TomliL 876 

Hjwa  to  the  EartL i77 

WritteD  during  a  temporary  hiindneas,  t7S9 ^76 

Uahomet. 579 

Oatulliao  UeodecasylUbloa 27U 

Dnty  aurviving  Stif-Utve 279 

Phantom  or  Fact  I    A  DJabiguc  b  Versa 28(1 

FhaDtom. 281 

Work  witliout  Hupe 281 

^   Touth  and  Age 281 

A  Day  Dreaoi 288 

Firat  Advent  ol'  Love 284 

Namei. 284 

Draire 284 

Lore  and  FriendaLip  opposite SM 

Not  at  Home 286 

To  a  Lady  offeoded  by  a  sporlire  obaervation 28C 

linea  luggeited  by  tlie  lA«t  Words  of  Berengariiu 286 

Saocli  DomiDici  Pallium 287 

Tho  Devil'B  Tbougbta 289 

The  tTO  romid  apaces  on  the  Tombsloue 292 

Lines  ton  Comie  Author 2tP4 

Constancy  to  an  Ideal  Object. 294 

Tha  Suicide's  Argument 290 

The  Blossoming  ur  the  solitary  Date  Tree 296 

From  theOerman 297 

Fuicy  in  Nabibus 29'( 

The  Two  Founts 299 

Tbt  Wauderiugs  of  Cain aOl 

.Allegoric  Vision 807 

Bew  Tbooghts  oa  Old  Subjecia 31! 

The  Garden  of  Boecaecio 318 

Ou  aOatanet 321 

Lore's  Apparition  and  Evaiiiahment 322 

Morning  luvitalion  to  a  Child 322 

Comolatiiia  of  a  Maniac 324 

A  Character 82S 

The  Reproof  and  Reply S27 

ChoUr*  Cured  beforehand %^ 

fMogne. TO\ 


Vmckllamocs  PoEaok 

Oa  my  joyful  Departure  from  the  same  City  (CoVigne) 831 

Written  ia  ao  Album 831 

To  the  Author  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 831 

Metrical  Feet    Lesson  for  a  Boy 332 

The  Homeric  Hexameter  described  and  exemplified 833 

The  OvJdian  Elegiac  Metre  described  and  exemplified 332 

To  the  young  Artist,  Kayser  of  Kayserworth 332 

Job's  Luck 838 

On  a  Volunteer  Singer 833 

On  an  Insignificant 833 

Profuse  Kindness 334 

Charity  in  Thoughts 834 

Humility  the  Mother  of  Charity 334 

On  an  Infant  which  died  before  Baptism 834 

On  Berkeley  and  Florence  Coleridge 334 

"  TvCfdi  aeavTbv,"'  «fec 335 

'*  Gently  I  took,"  te 335 

My  Baptismal  Birthday 336 

Epitaph 886 

An  Ode  to  the  Raiu 337 

The  Exchange 339 

Psyche 889 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Educatioo 839 

Comphunt 840 

'ETTtra^toy  airoypaTrrov 340 

What  is  Life! 341 

Inscription  for  a  Time-Piece 341 

Rkmobse  :    A  Tragedt 345 

Appendix 403 

Zapolta:    a  CnaiflTMAS  Tale. 

Part  L    The  Preluile,  entitled  "The  Usurper's  Fortune" 409 

Part  IL    The  Sequel,  entitled  "  The  Usurper's  Fate" 429 

Tns  PiccoLOMiNi ;  or.  The  Fibst  Paet  ok  Wallenstkin  :   A  Drama. 

Tranuluted  from  the  German  of  Schiller 479 

Tbx  Death  of  Wallenstbin  :    A  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts 609 

Notes  to  the  Translation 699 



Maid  of  my  Love,  sweet  Genevieve '. 
Ill  Beanty'i  light  you  glide  along : 
Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve, 
And  sweet  your  Voice,  as  Seraph's  song. 
Yet  not  your  heavenly  Beauly  gives 
This  heart  with  paBsion  soft  to  glow  ; 
Within  your  soul  a.  Voice  there  lives  .' 
It  bids  you  hear  the  Ule  of  Woe. 
When  sinking  low  the  Sutferei  wan 
■Beholds  no  hand  outstretcht  U>  save, 
Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  Swan 
That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 
I've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave, 
And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Geneviere  ! 


Mild  Splendor  of  the  various- vested  Night ! 
Mother  of  wildly- working  visions !  hail ! 
I  watch  thy  gliding,  while  with  watery  light 
Thy  weak  eye  glimmers  through  a  fleecy  veil ; 
And  when  thou  lovciit  thy  pale  orh  to  shroud 
Behind  the  gathered  blackness  lost  on  high  ; 
And  when  thou  dartest  from  the  wind-rent  cloud 
Thy  placid  lightning  o'er  the  awakened  sky. 
Ah  such  is  Hope  I  as  changeful  and  as  fail ! 
Now  dimly  peering  on  the  wistful  sijrht ; 
Now  hid  behind  the  dragon-winged  Despair: 
But  soon  emerging  in  her  radiant  might 
She  o'er  the  sorrow-clouded  breast  of  Care 
Sails,  like  a  ineleor  kindling  in  its  flight. 



Seraphs  !  around  th*  Eternal's  seat  who  ihnmg 

With  tuneful  ecstacies  of  praise : 
O !  teach  our  feeble  tongues  like  yours  the  naog 

Of  fervent  gratitude  to  raise — 
Like  you,  inspir'd  with  holy  flame 
To  dwell  on  that  Almighty  name 
Who  bade  the  child  of  woe  no  longer  sigh. 
And  Joy  in  tears  overspread  the  ITHdow's  eye. 

Th*  all-gracious  Parent  hears  the  wretch's  prayer ; 

The  meek  tear  strongly  pleads  on  high  ; 
Wan  Resignation  struggling  with  despair 

The  Lord  beholds  with  pitying  eye ; 
Sees  cheerless  want  unpitied  pine, 
Disease  on  earth  its  head  recline. 
And  bids  compassion  seek  the  realms  of  woe 
To  heal  the  wounded,  and  to  raise  the  low. 

She  comes !  she  comes  I  the  meek  ey'd  power  I  see 

With  liberal  hand  that  loves  to  bless ; 
The  clouds  of  sorrow  at  her  presence  flee  ; 

Rejoice  I  rejoice  !  ye  children  of  distress ! 
The  beams  that  play  around  her  head 
Thro'  want's  dark  vale  their  radiance  spread  : 
The  young  uncultur  d  mind  imbibes  the  ray. 
And  vice  reluctant  quits  th*  expected  prey. 

Cease,  thou  lorn  mother !  cease  thy  wailings  drear ' 

Ye  babes  I  the  unconscious  sob  forego ; 
Or  let  full  gratitude  now  prompt  the  tear 

Which  erst  did  sorrow  force  to  flow. 
Unkindly  cold  and  tempest  shrill 
In  life's  mom  of\  the  traveller  chill, 
But  soon  his  path  the  sun  of  Love  shall  warm ; 
And  each  glad  scene  look  brighter  for  the  storm  ! 




On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head, 
{I  knew  not  when",  but  'twaa  some  faery  place) 
Their  piaions,  oettich-like,  for  sails  ouUpread, 
Two  lovely  childrsn  run  an  endlew  race, 

A  Bister  and  a*, brother! 

That  far  outslripp'd  the  other  ; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face. 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind  : 

For  he,  alas !  is  blind ! 
O'er  rough  and  NDOoth  with  even  step  he  passed 
And  knowa  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


0  WHAT  a  wonder  seems  the  fear  of  death, 

Seeing  how  gladly  we  all  sicik  to  sleep. 

Babes,  Children,  Youths,  and  Men, 

Night  following  night  for  threescore  years  and  ten  I 

But  doubly  strange,  where  life  is  but  a  breath 

To  sigh  and  pant  with,  up  Want's  rugged  steep. 

Away,  Grim  Phantom  !  Scorpion  King,  away  ! 

Reserve  thy  terrors  and  thy  stiiigB  diNjilay 

For  coward  Wealth  and  GnJlt  in  robus  of  State  ! 

ho',  by  the  grave  I  stand  of  one.  for  whom 

A  prodigal  Nature  and  a  niggard  Boom 

(That  all  bestowing,  this  withholding  alt,) 

Uade  each  chance  knelt  from  distant  spire  or  dome 

Sound  like  a  seeking  Mother's  anxious  call. 

Return,  poor  Child  !  Home,  weary  Truant,  home  ! 

Thee,  Chattcrton  I  these  unblest  stones  protect 
From  want,  and  the  bleak  freezings  of  neglect. 
Too  long  before  the  vexing  Storm-blast  driven 
Here  hast  thou  found  repose  !  beneath  this  sod  '. 
Thou  !  0  vain  word  I  thou  dwell'st  not  wkh  iW  cVtA 


Amid  the  shining  Host  of  the  Forgiven 
Thou  at  the  Throne  of  Mercy  and  thy  God 
The  triumph  of  redeeming  Love  dost  hymn 
(Believe  it,  0  my  soul !)  to  harps  of  Seraphim. 

Yet  oft,  perforce,  ('tis  sufiering  Nature's  call) 
I  weep,  that  heaven-born  Genius  so  should  fall ; 
And  oft,  in  Fancy's  saddest  hour,  my  soul 
Averted  shudders  at  the  poisoned  bowl. 
Now  groans  my  sickening  heart,  as  still  I  view 

Thy  corse  of  livid  hue  ; 
Now  indignation  checks  the  feeble  sigh. 
Or  flashes  through  the  tear  that  glistens  in  mine  eye ! 

Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  ? 

Is  this  the  land,  where  Genius  ne'er  in  vain 

Poured  forth  his  lofty  strain  ? 
Ah  me !  yet  Spenser,  gentlest  bard  divine, 
Beneath  chill  Disappointment's  shade, 
His  weary  limbs  in  lonely  anguish  laid  ; 

And  o'er  her  darling  dead 

Pily  hopeless  hung  her  head, 
While  '*  mid  the  pelting  of  that  merciless  storm," 
Sunk  to  the  cold  earth  Otway's  famished  form ! 

Sublime  of  thought,  and  confident  of  fame. 

From  vales  where  Avon  winds  the  Minstrel*  came. 

Light-hearted  youth !  aye,  as  he  hastes  along, 
He  meditates  the  future  song, 
How  dauntless  ^Ua  frayed  the  Dacyan  foe  ; 

And  while  the  numbers  flowing  strong 

In  eddies  whirl,  in  surges  throng. 
Exulting  in  the  spirits'  genial  throe 
In  tides  of  power  his  life-blood  seems  to  flow. 

And  now  his  checks  w^ith  deeper  ardors  flame, 
His  eyes  have  glorious  meanings,  that  declare 
More  than  the  light  of  outward  day  shines  there, 
A  holier  triumph  and  a  sterner  aim ! 

•  Avon,  a  river  near  Brietol ;  the  birth-place  of  Cbatterto» 



Wings  grow  within  him  ;  and  he  wars  above 
Or  Bard's  or  Minslrei'i  lay  of  war  or  love. 
Friend  to  tht  friendless,  to  the  Sufferer  health, 
He  hears  the  widow's  prayer,  the  good  man's  praise ; 
To  scenes  of  bliss  transmutes  his  fancied  wealth, 
And  young-  and  old  shall  now  see  happy  days. 
On  many  «  waste  he  bids  trim  (gardens  rise, 
Gives  the  blue  sky  to  maoy  a  prisoner's  eyes  ; 
And  now  in  wrath  he  grasps  the  patriot  steel, 
And  her  own  iron  rod  ho  makes  Oppression  feel. 

Sweet  Flower  of  Hope  I  IVea  Nature's  genial  child  I 
That  didst  so  fair  disclose  thy  early  bloom, 
Filling  the  wide  air  with  a  rich  perfume  '. 
For  thee  in  vain  all  heavenly  aspects  smil'd  ; 
From  the  hard  world  briei' respite  could  they  win — 
The  frost  nipp'd  sharp  without,  the  canker  prey'd  within ' 
Ah  !  where  arc  lied  the  charms  of  vernal  Urace, 
And  Joy's  wild  gleams  that  lighten'd  o'er  thy  fac«  ' 
Youth  of  tumultuous  soul,  and  haggard  eye  ! 
Thy  wasted  form,  thy  hurried  steps  I  view, 
On  thy  wan  forehead  starts  the  lethal  dew. 
And  oh  '.  the  anguish  of  that  shuddering  sigh ! 

Such  were  the  struggles  of  the  gloomy  hour. 

When  Care,  of  withered  brow, 
Prepared  the  poison's  doath'Cold  power ; 
Already  to  thy  hps  was  raised  the  bowl, 
When  near  thee  stood  Aflection  meek 
(Her  bosom  bare,  and  wildly  pale  her  chmk)  I 
Thy  sullen  gaze  she  bade  thee  roll 
On  scenes  that  well  might  melt  thy  soul ; 
Thy  native  cot  she  flashed  upon  thy  view. 
Thy  native  cot,  where  still,  at  cloee  of  day. 
Peace  smiling  sale,  and  listened  to  thy  lay  ; 
Thy  Sister's  ehricks  she  bade  thee  bear, 
And  mark  thy  mother's  thrilling  tear  ;   • 
See,  see  her  breast's  convulsive  ihro^, 
Her  silent  agony  of  woe.' 
Ah  !  dash  the  poisoned  chalico  from  thy  hand*. 


And  thou  had^st  dashed  it,  at  her  soft  command, 

But  that  Despair  and  Indignation  rose, 

And  told  again  the  story  of  thy  woes  ; 

Told  the  keen  insult  of  the  unfeeling  heart ; 

The  dread  dependence  on  the  low-horn  mind ; 

Told  every  pang,  with  which  thy  soul  must  smart, 

Neglect,  and  grinning  Scorn,  and  Want  oomhined ! 

Recoiling  quick,  thou  bad'st  the  friend  of  pain 

Roll  the  black  tide  of  Death  through  every  freezing  rein  ? 

0  Spirit  blest ! 
Whether  the  Eternal's  throne  around, 
Amidst  the  blaze  of  Seraphim, 
Thou  pourest  forth  the  grateful  hymn  ; 
Or  soaring  thro'  the  blest  domain 
Enrapturest  Angels  with  thy  strain, — 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  the  lyre  to  soimd, 
Like  thee  with  fire  divine  to  glow  ; — 
But  ah  I  when  rage  the  waves  of  woe. 
Grant  me  with  firmer  breast  to  meet  their  hate. 
And  soar  beyond  the  storm  with  upright  eye  elate ! 

Ye  woods  I  that  wave  o'er  Avon's  rocky  steep, 
To  Fancy's  ear  sweet  is  your  murmuring  deep  I 
For  here  she  loves  the  c}'press  >\Teath  to  weave 
Watching,  with  wistful  eye,  the  saddening  tints  of  eTo. 
Here,  far  from  men,  amid  this  pathless  grove, 
In  solemn  thought  the  Minstrel  wont  to  rove. 
Like  star-beam  on  the  slow  sequestered  tide 
Lone-glittering,  through  the  high  tree  branching  wide. 

And  here,  in  Inspiration's  eager  hour. 
When  most  the  big  soul  feels  the  mastering  power, 
These  wilds,  these  caverns  roaming  o'er. 
Round  which  the  screaming  sea-gulls  soar. 
With  wild  unequal  steps  he  passed  along. 
Oft  pouring  on  the  winds  a  broken  song  : 
Anon,  upon  some  rough  rock's  fearful  brow 
Would  pause  abrupt — and  gaze  upon  the  waves  below. 

Poor  Chatterton  I  he  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  are  too  late. 


Poor  Chatlerton  !  farewell !  of  darkest  fanes 
This  chaplet  cast  1  on  thy  unshapcd  tomb  ; 
But  dare  no  longer  oa  the  lad  theme  muse, 
Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom  : 
For  oh  !  big  gall-drops,  shook  from  Folly's  wing, 
Have  blackened  the  foir  promise  of  my  spring; 
And  the  stem  Fate  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 
The  last  pale  Hope  that  Bhivcred  at  my  heart  I 

Hence,  gloomy  thoughts  !  no  more  my  soul  shall  dwell 

On  joya  that  were  !  B'o  more  endure  to  weigh 

The  ihame  and  anguish  of  the  evil  day. 

Wisely  forgetful  I     O'er  the  ocean  swell 

Sublime  of  Hope  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell 

Where  Virtue  calm  with  careless  Etep  may  stray ; 

And,  dancing  to  the  moonlight  roundelay. 

The  wizard  passions  weave  a  holy  spell ! 

0  Chatterton  I  that  thou  wert  yet  olive  I 

Sure  thou  would' et  spread  the  canvass  to  the  gale, 

And  love  with  us  the  tinkling  team  to  drive 

O'er  peaceful  Freedom's  undivided  dale ; 

And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng, 

Would  hang,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song. 

And  greet  with  smiles  the  young-eyed  Poesy 

All  deftly  masked,  as  hoar  Antiquity. 

Alas,  vain  Phantasies  !  the  fieeting  brood 

Of  Woe  self-solaced  in  her  dreamy  mood  ! 

Yet  will  I  love  to  follow  the  sweet  dream, 

Where  Susquehanna  pours  his  untamed  stream  ; 

And  on  some  hill,  whose  forest-frowning  side 

Waves  o'er  the  murmurs  of  his  calmer  tide, 

Will  raise  a  solema  Cenotaph  to  thee, 

Sweet  Harper  of  time-shrouded  Minstrelsy  ! 

And  there,  soothed  sadly  by  the  dirgefol  windt 

Muse  on  the  sore  ills  I  had  lefl  behind. 



The  Pixies,  in  the  superstition  of  Devonshire,  are  a  race  of  beings  !&%'» 
ibiy  small,  and  harmless  or  friendly  to  man.  At  a  small  distonoe  from  a 
village  in  that  county,  half-way  up  a  wood-eovered  hill,  is  an  ezeavation 
called  the  Pixies*  Parlor.  The  roots  of  old  trees  form  its  ceiling ;  and  on 
its  sides  are  innumerable  ciphers,  among  which  the  author  discovered  his 
own  and  those  of  his  brothers,  cut  by  the  hand  of  their  diildhood.  At  the 
foot  of  the  hill  flows  the  river  Otter. 

To  this  place  the  author,  during  the  Summer  months  of  the  year  179«^ 
conducted  a  party  of  youug  ladies,  one  of  whom,  of  stature  elegantly  small, 
and  of  complexion  colorless  yet  clear,  was  proclaimed  the  Faery  Queeo. 
On  which  occasion  the  lollowiug  Irr<^ular  Ode  was  written. 


Whom  the  untaught  Shepherds  call 

Pixies  in  their  madrigal. 
Fancy's  children,  here  we  dwell : 

Welcome,  Ladies  I  to  our  cell. 
Here  the  wren  of  softest  note 

Builds  its  nest  and  warbles  well ; 
Here  the  blackbird  strains  his  throat ; 

Welcome,  Ladies  I  to  our  cell. 


When  fades  the  moon  to  shadowy-pale. 
And  scuds  the  cloud  before  the  gale. 
Ere  the  Morn,  all  gem-bed ight, 
Hath  streaked  the  East  with  rosy  light, 
We  sip  the  furze-flower's  fragrant  dews 
Clad  in  robes  of  rainbow  hues  : 
Or  sport  amid  the  shooting  gleams 
To  the  tune  of  distant-tinkling  teams. 
While  lusty  Labor  scouting  sorrow 
Bids  the  Dame  a  glad  good-morrow. 
Who  jogs  the  accustomed  road  along, 
And  paces  cheer)'  to  her  cheering  song. 


But  not  our  filmy  pinion 
We  scorch  amid  the  blaze  of  day. 
When  Noontide's  fiery-tressed  mioioa 
Flashes  the  fervid  ray. 


Aye  from  the  sultry  heat 

We  to  the  cave  retreat 
O'eicanopied  by  huge  roots  intertwinnl 
With  wildest  texture,  blackened  u'er  with  age  : 
Bouid  them  theii  mantle  green  the  ivies  bind,  '•■ 

Beneath  whoae  foUuge  pale 

Fanned  by  the  unfrequent  gale 
Wo  iJiield  ua  from  the  Tyrant's  mid-day  rage. 

Thither,  wbile  the  murmuring  throng 
Of  wild-bees  hum  their  drowsy  Fong, 
By  Indolence  and  Fancy  brought, 
A  youthful  Bard,  "  unknown  to  Fame," 
ffoos  the  auccn  of  Solemn  Thought, 
Ano  heaves  the  gentle  misery  of  a  sigh 
Gazing  with  tearful  eye, 
PiS  round  our  sandy  grot  appear 
Uany  a  rudely  sculptured  name 
To  pensive  Memory  dear ! 
Weirfing  gay  dreams  of  sunny-tinctured  hue 

We  glance  before  hia  view  ; 
O'er  his  hush'd  soul  our  soothing  witcheries  shed 
And  twine  the  future  garland  round  his  head. 

When  Evening's  dusky  car 

Crowned  with  her  dewy  star 
Steals  o'er  Iho  fading  sky  in  shadowy  flight ; 

On  leaves  of  aspen  trees 

We  tremble  to  the  breeze 
Veiled  from  the  grosser  ken  of  mortal  sight. 

Or,  haply,  at  the  visionary  hour. 
Along  our  wildly-bowere<l  sequestered  walk. 
We  listen  to  the  enamored  rustic's  talk  ; 
Heave  with  the  hcavings  of  the  maiden's  breast. 
Where  young-eyed  Loves  have  hid  their  tnrtle-nest; 

Or  guide  of  soul-subduing  power 
The  glance,  that  from  the  half-confessing  eye 
Darts  the  lund  question  or  (he  soil  reply. 
;  V.I.  B 



Or  through  the  mystic  ringlets  of  the  vale 
We  flash  our  faery  feet  in  gamesome  prank  ; 
Or,  silent-sandal'd,  pay  our  defler  court, 
Circling  the  Spirit  of  the  Western  Gale, 
Where  wearied  with  his  flower-caressing  sport, 
Supine  he  slumhers  on  a  violet  hank ; 
Then  with  quaint  music  hymn  the  parting  gleam 
By  lonely  Otter's  sleep-persuading  stream  ; 
Or  where  his  wave  with  loud  unquiet  song 
Dashed  o'er  the  rocky  channel  froths  along  ; 
Or  where,  his  silver  waters  smoothed  to  rest. 
The  tall  tree's  shadow  sleeps  upon  his  breast. 


Hence  thou  lingerer.  Light  I 
Eve  saddens  into  Night. 
Mother  of  wildly-working  dreams  !  we  view 
The  sombre  hours,  that  round  the  stand 
With  down-cast  eyes  (a  duteous  band)  I 
Their  dark  robes  dripping  with  the  heavy  dew. 
Sorceress  of  the  ebon  throne  I 
Thy  power  the  Pixies  own. 
When  round  thy  raven  brow 
Heaven's  lucent  roses  glow, 
And  clouds  in  watery  colors  drest 
Float  in  light  drapery  o'er  thy  sable  vest : 
What  time  the  pale  moon  sheds  a  softer  day 
Mellowing  the  woods  beneath  its  pensive  beam  : 
For  mid  the  quivering  light  'tis  ours  to  play, 
Aye  dancing  to  the  cadence  of  the  stream. 


Welcome,  Ladies  I  to  the  cell 

Where  the  blameless  Pixies  dwell : 
But  thou,  sweet  Nymph !  proclaimed  our  Faery  Queen, 

With  what  obeisance  meet 

Thy  presence  shall  we  greet  ? 
For  lo  !  attendant  on  thy  steps  are  seen 

JUrKNILK  poiais. 

Graceful  Ease  in  artlees  stole, 
And  white-robod  Purity  of  soul, 
With  Honor's  softer  mien  ; 
Mirth  of  the  loosely-flowing  hair. 
And  meek-eyed  Pity  eloquently  fair, 

"Wliosa  tearful  cheeks  are  lovely  to  the  view. 
As  snow-drop  wet  with  dew. 

Unboastfril  Maid  !  though  now  the  Lily  pale 

Transparent  grace  thy  beauties  moek  ; 
Yet  ere  again  aiong  the  impurpling  vale, 
The  purpling  vale  and  eltin-haunted  grove, 
Young  Zephyr  his  fresh  flowers  profusely  thro 

"We'll  tinge  with  livelier  hues  thy  cheek  ; 

And,  haply,  from  the  nectar-breathing  Rose 

Extract  a  Blush  for  Love  I 


Underneatu  an  old  oak  tree 

There  was  of  swine  a  huge  company 

That  grunted  as  they  crunch 'd  the  mast : 

For  that  was  ripe,  and  lull  full  fast. 

Then  they  trotted  away,  lor  the  wind  grew  high  : 

One  acorn  they  left,  and  no  more  might  you  spy. 

Next  came  a  Raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly  : 

He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  1 

Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 

Plew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet. 

He  picked  np  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 

By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great. 

Where  then  did  the  Raven  go  ? 

He  went  high  and  low, 
Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  Ravcti  go. 

Many  Autumns,  many  Springs 

Travelled  ho  with  wuiiileriug  wiiiKt*. 


Many  Summers,  many  Winters— 
I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 

At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him  a  She, 

And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak  tree. 

They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 

And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 

But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern  guise, 

His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over  his  eyes. 

He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke. 

But  Avith  many  a  hem  !  and  a  sturdy  stroke, 

At  length  he  brought  down  the  poor  Raven's  own  oak, 

His  young  ones  were  killed ;  for  they  could  not  depart, 

And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  woodman  did  sever ; 

And  they  floated  it  doi^ni  on  the  course  of  the  river. 

They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip, 

And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 

The  ship,  it  was  lanched ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 

Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  withstand. 

It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves  rushed  in  fast : 

Hound  and  round  flew  the  Haven,  and  cawed  to  the  blast. 

He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perishing  souls — 

See !  See  I  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls  I 

flight  glad  was  the  Raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  clcud  did  he  meet, 
And  he  thanked  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat : 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  Revenge  it  was  sweet  I 


Hence,  soul-dissolving  Harmony 

That  lead'st  th'  oblivious  soul  astray— 
Though  thou  sphere  descended  be — 
Hence  away  I — 
Thou  mightier  Goddess,  thou  demand'st  my  lay. 

Bom  when  earth  was  seiz'd  with  cholic ; 
Or  as  more  sapient  sages  say, 
What  time  the  Legion  diabolic 


Compelled  their  beings  to  enshrine 
In  bodies  vile  of  herded  swine, 
Precipitate  adown  the  eleep 
With  hideous  lout  were  plunging  in  the  deep, 
And  hog  and  devil  mingling  grunt  and  yell 

Sciz'd  on  the  ear  with  horrible  oblnision  ;— 
Then  if  aright  old  legendaries  tell, 

Wort  thou  begot  by  Discord  on  Confusioti ! 

"What  tho'  no  name's  aonoroue  power 
Was  given  thee  at  thy  natal  hour  I — 
Yet  oft  I  feel  thy  sacred  might. 
While  conconla  wing  their  diataot  flight. 
Such  power  inspires  thy  holy  son 
Sable  clerk  of  Tiverton. 
And  oft  where  Otter  Bports  his  stream, 
I  hear  thy  banded  oirspring  scteain. 
Thou  tioddcsa !  thou  inspir'st  each  throat ; 
'Tis  thou  who  pour'st  the  scriluh  owl  note ! 
Transported  hear'st  thy  children  all 
Scrape  and  blow  and  squeak  and  Equall, 
And  while  old  Otter's  steeple  rings, 
Clappest  hoarse  thy  raven  wings  ! 



The  indignant  Bard  compos'd  this  furious  ode, 
As  lir'd  ho  dragg'd  his  way  thro'  Plimtree  read ! 
Crusted  with  filth  and  stuck  in  mire 
Dull  sounds  the  Bard's  bemudded  lyre  ; 
Nathless  Revenge  and  Ire  the  Poet  goad 
To  pout  his  imprecations  on  the  road. 
CuiBt  road  1  whose  execrable  way 
Was  darkly  shadow'd  out  in  Hilton's  lay, 
When  the  sad  fiends  thro'  Hell's  sulphureous  roads 
Took  the  first  survey  of  their  new  abodes  ; 
Or  when  the  fuH'n  Archangel  fierce 
Dar'd  through  the  realms  of  Night  lo  pierce, 
What  time  the  Blood  Hound  lur'd  by  Human  scent 
Thro'  all  Confusion's  quagmires  floundering  went. 


Nor  cheering  pipe,  nor  Bird*s  shrill  note 

Around  thy  dreary  paths  shall  float ; 

Their  boding  songs  shall  scritch  owl»  pour 

To  fright  the  guilty  shepherds  sore, 

Led  by  the  wandering  fires  astray 

Thro'  the  dank  horrors  of  thy  way  I 

While  they  their  mud-lost  sandals  hunt 

May  all  the  corses,  which  they  grunt 

In  raging  moan  like  goaded  hog, 

Alight  upon  thee,  damned  Bog  !  179a 


Ti3  hard  on  Bagshot  Heath  to  try 

Unclos*d  to  keep  the  weary  eye  ; 

But  ah  I  Oblivion's  nod  to  get 

In  rattling  coach  is  harder  yet 
Slumbrous  God  of  half-shut  eve  ! 

AVho  lov*6t  with  Limbs  supine  to  lie  ; 
Soother  sweet  of  toil  and  care 

Listen,  listen  to  my  prayer  ; 
And  to  thy  votarj'  dispense 

Thy  soporific  influence  ! 
What  tho'  around  thy  drowsy  head 

The  seven-fold  cap  of  night  be  spread, 
Yet  lift  that  drowsy  head  awhile 

And  yawn  propitiously  a  smile  ; 
In  drizzly  rains  j)opjxjau  dews 

O'er  the  tird  inmates  of  the  Coach  difiuse ; 
And  when  thoust  charm'd  our  eyes  to  rest 

Pillowing  the  chin  upon  the  breast, 
Bid  many  a  dream  from  thy  dominions 

Wave  its  various-painted  pinions. 
Till  ere  the  splendid  visions  close 

We  snore  quartettes  in  ecstacy  of  novse. 
While  thus  we  urge  our  airy  course, 
Oh  may  no  jolt's  electric  force 
Our  fancies  from  their  steeds  unhorse, 

And  call  us  from  thy  fairy  reign 

To  dreary  Bagshot  Heath  again  !  1790L 


If  Pegwu*  will  let  thee  oaij  ride  him, 
Spurning  my  ciumay  effi>rts  to  o'entrida  liim. 
Some  fresh  eipeilicDt  tbe  Miue  will  trjr. 
And  walk  on  sUlta,  although  ahe  can  uot  fly. 

DuK  Beother, 
I  have  often  been  surprised  that  Hathematics,  the  ({aiatcMenoc  of  Tcutli, 
ihould  have  found  admirers  so  fewnud  so  languid.  Frequent  eoDalderat inn 
and  minute  scrutiny  have  nt  leugth  uuraTelled  the  cate ;  via.  that  tliougb 
Reason  is  feasted,  Imagination  is  starved ;  nliilat  Heasou  is  luxuriating  in  its 
proper  Paradise.  Imagination  is  wearily  travelling  on  a  dreary  desert.  To 
assist  Reason  by  the  stimulus  of  Imoginslion  is  the  desi^  of  the  folluw' 
ing  production.  In  the  exwutiun  of  it  much  may  be  objectionable.  The 
verse  (particularly  in  the  iutroduction  of  the  ode)  may  be  accused  of  ud- 
warrantaUe  liberties,  but  they  ore  liberties  equally  homt^encal  with  the 
exactness  of  Matbematieal  disquisition,  and  tbe  boldness  of  Pindaric  daring. 
I  have  three  strong  champions  to  defend  me  against  the  attacks  of  Criticism  ; 
the  Xovelty,  the  Difficulty,  and  the  Utility  of  the  work.  I  may  justly 
plume  myself,  tbat  I  fimt  have  drawn  the  nymph  Hatheeis  from  the  Tision- 
ary  cares  of  abstracted  Idea,  and  caused  her  to  unite  vith  Harmony.  The 
first-born  of  this  Union  I  now  present  to  you;  with  interested  motives  in- 
u  I  expect  to  receive  in  rutum  the  more  valuable  otbpring  of  your 

This  is  now— this  was  erst, 
Propocitioii  Iho  firat — aad  Problem  the  first. 

On  a  given  finite  lino 
Which  must  no  way  incline ; 
To  describu  an  eqni — 
—lateral  Tri— 
—  A,  N.  G,  E.  L,  E. 

Now  let  A.  B. 
lie  ihc  );ivcn  lino 
Which  must  no  way  incline  ; 
The  great  Mathematician 
Makes  this  itcc[iiisition. 

That  we  describe  an  Eqni— 
—lateral  Tri— 

Aid  lie  Keaxuu — aid  its  Wit  I 



From  the  centre  A.  at  the  distance  A.  B. 

Describe  the  circle  B.  C.  D. 
At  the  distance  B.  A.  from  B.  the  centre 
The  round  A.  C.  E.  to  describe  boldly  venture. 
(Third  postulate  see.) 
And  from  the  point  C. 
In  which  the  circles  make  a  pother 
Cutting  and  slashing  one  another, 

Bid  the  straight  lines  a  journeying  go. 
C.  A.  C.  B.  those  lines  will  show 

To  the  points,  which  by  A.  B.  are  reckon*d, 
And  postulate  the  second 
For  Authority  ye  know. 

A.  B.  C. 
Triumphant  shall  be 
An  Equilateral  Triangle, 
Not  Peter  Pindar  carp,  nor  Zoilus  can  wrangle. 


Because  the  point  A.  is  the  centre 

Of  the  circular  B.  CD. 
And  because  the  point  B.  is  the  centre 

Of  the  circular  A.  C.  E. 
A.  C.  to  A.  B.  and  B  Q.  to  B.  A. 
Harmoniously  equal  forever  must  stay  ; 
Then  C.  A.  and  B.  C. 
Both  extend  the  kind  hand 
To  the  basis  A.  B, 
Unambitious] yjoin'd  in  Equality's  Band. 
But  to  the  same  powers,  when  two  powers  are  equal 
My  mind  forcbodts  the  sequel ; 
My  mind  docs  some  celestial  impulse  teach, 

And  equalizes  each  to  each. 
Thus  C.  A  with  B.  C.  strikes  the  same  sure  aMiance. 
That  C.  A.  anl  B.  C.  had  with  A.  B.  before 
And  in  mutual  affiance 
None  attempting  to  soar 
Above  another. 


The  unanimous  three 
C.  A.  and  B.  C.  and  A.  B. 
All  arc  equal,  each  to  his  brother, 

Preserving  the  balance  of  power  so  true : 
Ah  !  the  like  would  the  proud  Autocratix*  do  ! 
At  taxes  impending  not  Britain  would  tremble. 
Nor  Prussia  struggle  her  fear  to  dissemble; 
Nor  the  Mah'met-sprung  wight 
The  great  Mussulman 
Would  stain  his  Divan 
With  Urine  the  soft-flowing  daughter  of  Fright. 


But  rein  your  stallion  in,  too  daring  Nine ! 
Should  Empires  bloat  the  scientific  line  ? 
Or  with  disheveird  hair  all  madly  do  ye  run 

For  transport  that  your  task  is  done  ? 
For  done  it  is — the  cause  is  tried  I 
And  Proposition,  gentle  maid, 
Who  soothly  ask'd  stern  Demonstration's  aid, 
Has  proved  her  right,  and  A.  B.  C. 
Of  Angles  three 
Is  shown  to  be  of  equal  side  ; 
And  now  our  weary  steed  to  rest  in  fine, 
'Tis  raised  upon  A.  B.  the  straight,  the  given  line. 


Ye  souls  unus'd  to  lofty  verse. 

Who  sweep  the  earth  with  lowly  wing, 

Like  sand  before  the  blast  disperse — 
A  Nose  I  a  mighty  Nose  I  sing  I 
As  erst  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven  the  fire 

To  animate  the  wonder  of  his  hand  ; 
Thus,  with  unhallow'd  hands,  0  muse,  aspire, 

And  from  my  subject  snatch  a  burning  brand  I 
So  like  the  Nose  I  sing — my  verso  shall  glow — 
Like  Phlcgethon  my  verse  in  waves  of  fire  shall  flow ! 

♦  Empress  of  Russia. 


Light  of  this  once  all  darksome  spot 

Where  now  their  glad  course  mortals  run, 
First-bom  of  Sirius  begot 
Upon  the  focus  of  the  sun — 

I'll  call  thee I  for  such  thy  earthly  name — 

What  name  so  high,  but  what  too  low  must  be  ? 
Comets,  when  most  they  drink  the  solar  flame 

Are  but  faint  types  and  images  of  thee  ! 
Burn  madly  Fire  I  o'er  earth  in  ravage  run, 
Then  blush  for  shame  more  red  by  fiercer outdone  ! 

I  saw  when  from  the  turtle  feast 

The  thick  dark  smoke  in  volumes  rose  ! 

I  saw  the  darkness  of  the  mist 
Encircle  thee,  0  Nose  ! 
Shorn  of  thy  rays  thou  shott'st  a  fearful  gleam 

(The  turtle  quiver'd  with  prophetic  fright) 
Gloomy  and  sullen  thro'  the  night  of  steam  : — 

So  Satan's  Nose  when  Duiistan  urg'd  to  flight 
Glowing  from  gripe  of  red-hot  pincers  dread 
Athwart  the  smokes  of  Hell  disastrous  twilight  shed  ! 

The  furies  to  madness  my  brain  devote — 
In  robes  of  ice  my  body  wrap  I 

On  billowy  flames  of  fire  I  float, 

Hear  ye,  my  entrails  how  they  snap  ? 
Some  power  unseen  forbids  my  lungs  to  breathe  I 

What  fire-clad  meteors  round  me  whizzing  fly  I 
I  vitrify  thy  torrid  zone  beneath 

Proboscis  fierce  I   I  am  calcin'd  I   I  die  I 
Thus,  like  great  Pliny,  in  Vesuvius'  fire, 

I  perish  in  the  blaze  while  I  the  blaze  admire. 



0  MUSE  who  sangest  late  another's  pain, 
To  griefs  domestic  turn  thy  coal-black  steed  I 
With  slowest  steps  thy  funeral  steed  must  go. 
Nodding  his  head  in  all  the  pomp  of  woe  : 
Wide  scatter  round  each  dark  and  deadly  weed, 

juvENiLb:  roans. 

And  let  the  melancholy  dirge  complain 
{While  Bata  shall  ehrick  and  Dogs  shall  howling  run) 
The  tea-kettle  is  spoilt  and  Coleridge  is  undone  ! 
Your  cheerful  songs,  ye  unseen  crickets  cease  ! 
Let  songs  of  grief  your  alter'd  minds  engage  ! 
For  be  who  sang  responsive  to  your  lay, 
What  time  the  joyous  bubbles  'gau  to  play. 
The  sooty  swain  has  felt  the  fire's  fierce  rage  ; — 
Yes,  be  is  gone,  and  alt  my  woes  increase  ; 
1  heard  the  Water  issuing  from  the  Wound — 
No  more  the  Tea  shall  pour  its  flagrant  steams  around  ! 

O  Goddess  best  beloved,  delightful  Tea  ! 

With  thee  compar'd  what  yields  the  madd'ning  vine  ? 

Sweet  power  !  who  know'st  to  spread  the  calm  delight 

And  the  pure  joy  prolong  to  midmost  night ! 

Ah  !  must  I  all  thy  varied  sweets  resign  ? 

Eufbldcd  close  in  grief  thy  form  I  see 

No  more  wilt  thou  extend  thy  willing  arms, 

Receive  the  fervent  Jove  and  yield  him  all  thy  charms  ! 

How  sink  the  mighty  low  by  Fate  opprest ! — 

Perhaps,  0  Kettle !  thou  by  scornful  toe 

Rude  urg'd  t'  ignoble  place  with  plaintive  din, 

May'st  rust  obscure  midst  heaps  of  vulgar  tin  ; — 

As  if  no  joy  had  ever  seiz'd  my  breast 

When  from  thy  spout  the  streams  did  arching  fly, — 

As  if  infus'd  thou  ne'er  badst  known  1'  inspire 

All  the  warm  raptures  of  poetic  fire  ! 

But  hark  !  or  do  I  fancy  the  glad  voice — 

"  What  tho'  the  swain  did  wondrous  channs  disclose — • 

(!Not  such  did  Mcmnoti's  sister  sable  drest) 

Take  these  bright  anna  with  royal  face  imprest, 

A  better  Kettle  shall  thy  soul  rejoiec, 

And  with  Oblivion's  wings  o'erspiead  thy  woes  !" 

Thus  Fairy  Hope  can  soothe  distress  and  toil  ; 

On  empty  Trivets  she  bids  fancied  Kettles  boil  I 





Where  graced  with  many  a  classic  spoil 

Cam  rolls  his  reverend  stream  along, 

I  haste  to  urge  the  learned  toil 

That  sternly  chides  my  love-lorn  song  : 

Ah  me  !  too  mindful  of  the  days 

Illumed  by  Passion's  orient  rays, 

When  peace,  and  Cheerfulness,  and  Health 

Enriched  me  with  the  best  of  wealth. 

Ah  fair  Delights !  that  o'er  my  soul 
On  Memory's  wing,  like  shadows  fly  ! 
Ah  Flowers !  which  Joy  from  Eden  stole 
While  Innocence  stood  smiling  by ! — 
But  cease,  fond  Heart !  this  bootless  moan : 
Those  Hours  on  rapid  Pinions  flown 
Shall  yet  return,  by  Absence  crowned, 
And  scatter  livelier  roses  round. 
The  Sun  who  ne'er  remits  his  fires 
On  fieedless  eyes  may  pour  the  day  : 
The  Moon,  that  oh  from  Heaven  retires, 
Endears  her  renovated  ray. 
What  though  she  leaves  the  sky  unblest 
To  mourn  awhile  in  murky  vest  ? 
When  she  relumes  her  lovely  Light, 
We  bless  the  Wanderer  of  the  Night. 


ON    THE    SAME. 

Farewell  parental  scenes !  a  sad  farewell ! 
To  you  my  grateful  heart  still  fondly  clings, 
Tho'  fluttering  round  on  Fancy's  burnished  wings 
Her  tales  of  future  Joy  Hope  loves  to  tell. 


Adieu,  adieu  1  ye  much  lov'd  cloisters  psie  ! 

Ah  !  would  those  happy  days  return  agaia, 

Whea  'oeath  your  arches,  tree  from  every  stain, 

I  heard  of  guilt  and  wonder'd  at  the  tale ! 

Dear  haunts  !  where  oft  my  simple  lays  1  sang, 

Listening  meanwhile  the  echoings  of  my  feet, 

Lingering  I  quit  you,  with  as  greut  a  pang. 

As  when  erewhile,  my  weeping  childhood,  torn 

By  early  sorrow  from  my  native  seat. 

Mingled  its  tears  with  hers — my  widow'd  Parent  lorn. 


Tbo'  no  bold  flights  to  thee  belong ; 

And  the'  thy  lays  with  couBcious  fear, 

Shrink  from  Judgment's  eye  severe, 

Yet  much  I  thank  thee,  Spirit  of  my  song  I 

For,  lovely  Muse  !  thy  sweet  employ 

Exalts  my  soul,  refines  my  breast. 

Gives  each  pure  pleasure  keener  zest, 

And  soflens  sorrow  into  ]iensive  Joy. 

From  thee  1  leam'd  the  wish  to  bless, 

From  thee  to  commune  with  my  heart ; 

From  thee,  dear  Muse !  the  gayer  part. 

To  laugh  wilh  Pity  at  the  crowds,  that  press 

Where  Fashion  flaunts  her  robes  by  Folly  spun, 

Whose  hues  gay  varying  wanton  in  the  sun. 



ViBTUBS  and  WocH  alike  loo  great  for  man 

In  the  soft  tale  ofl  claim  the  useless  sigh  ; 
For  vain  the  attempt  to  realizo  the  plan. 

On  folly's  wings  must  imitation  tly. 
With  other  aim  has  Fielding  here  display'd 

Each  social  duty  and  each  social  care  ; 
With  just  yet  vivid  coloring  porlray'd 

What  every  wife  should  be.  what  many  aT«. 


And  sure  the  P&rentof  a  race  so  sweet 
With  double  pleasure  on  the  page  shall  dwell. 
Each  scene  with  sympathizing  breast  shall  meet. 
While  Reason  still  with  smiles  delights  to  toll 
Maternal  hope,  that  her  lov*d  Progeny 
In  all  but  Sorrows  shall  Amelias  be  ! 


The  tear  which  moum'd  a  brother's  fate  scarce  dry- 
Pain  after  pain,  and  woe  succeeding  woe — 
Is  my  heart  destined  for  another  blow  ? 
0  my  sweet  sister  I  and  must  thou  too  die  ? 
Ah  I  how  has  Disappointment  pour'd  the  tear 
O'er  infant  Hope  destroy'd  by  early  frost  I 
How  are  ye  gone,  whom  most  my  soul  held  dear  ! 
Scarce  had  I  lov'd  you,  ere  I  mourn'd  you  lost ; 
Say,  is  this  hollow  eye — ^this  heartless  pain 
Paled  to  rove  thro'  Life's  wide  cheerless  plain — 
Nor  father,  brother,  sister  meets  its  ken — 
cVIy  woes,  my  joys  unshar'd  !     Ah  I  long  ere  then 
3n  me  thy  icy  dart,  stern  Death,  be  prov'd  ; — 
i\eiier  to  die,  than  live  and  not  bo  lov'd  ! 



[  TOO  a  sister  had  I  too  cruel  Death  ! 
How  sad  remembrance  bids  my  bosom  heave  I 
Tranquil  her  soul,  as  sleeping  Infant's  breath  ; 
Meek  were  her  manners  as  a  vernal  Eve. 
Knowledge,  that  irequent  lifts  the  bloated  mind, 
jrave  her  the  treasure  of  a  lowly  breast, 
And  Wit  to  venom'd  Malice  oft  assign'd. 
Dwelt  in  her  bosom  in  a  Turtle's  nest. 


Cease,  busy  Memory  !  cease  to  urge  the  dart ; 

Nor  on  my  soul  her  love  to  me  impress  ! 

For  oh  I  mourn  in  anguish — and  my  heart 

Feels  the  keen  pang,  th'  unutterable  distress. 
Yet  wherefore  grieve  I  that  her  sorrows  cease, 
For  Life  was  Misery,  and  the  Grave  is  Peace  ! 


I  TOO  a  sister  had,  an  only  sister  ; — 

She  lov'd  me  dearly  and  I  doted  on  her ; 

To  her  I  pour'd  forth  all  my  puny  sorrows, 

(As  a  sick  patient  in  a  nurse's  arms) 

And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies 

That  e'en  from  Friendship's  eye  will  shrink  asham'd. 

0 !  I  have  wak'd  at  midnight  and  have  wept 

Because  she  was  not. 


Once  could  the  Morn's  first  beams,  the  healthful  breeze 

All  nature  charm,  and  gay  was  every  hour  : — 

But  ah  !  not  Music's  self,  nor  fragrant  bower 

Can  glad  the  trembling  sense  of  wan  disease. 

Now  that  the  frequent  pangs  my  frame  assail. 

Now  that  my  sleepless  eyes  are  sunk  and  dim, 

And  seas  of  pain  seem  waving  through  each  limb^ 

Ah  what  can  all  Life's  gilded  scenes  avail  ? 

I  view  the  crowd,  whom  youth  and  health  inspire, 

Hear  the  loud  laugh,  and  catch  the  sportive  lay, 

Then  sigh  and  think — I  too  could  laugh  and  play 

And  gaily  sport  it  on  the  Muse's  lyre, 

Ere  Tyrant  Pain  had  chas'd  away  delight. 

Ere  the  wild  pulse  throbb'd  anguish  thro'  the  night ! 


As  late  I  jouniied  o'er  the  extensive  plain 
Where  native  Otter  sports  his  scanty  stream, 

Musing  in  torpid  woe  a  sister's  pain, 

The  glorious  prospect  woke  rne  from  the  dream. 


At  every  step  it  widen'd  to  my  sight. 

Wood,  Meadow,  verdant  Hill,  and  dreary  Sleep. 

Following  in  quick  succession  of  delight, 

Till  all — at  once — did  my  eye  ravish'd  sweep  ! 

May  this  (I  cried)  my  course  through  Life  portray  ! 
New  scenes  of  wisdom  may  each  step  display, 

And  knowledge  open  as  my  days  advance  ! 
Till  what  time  Death  shall  pour  the  undarken'd  ray. 

My  eye  shall  dart  thro'  infinite  expanse, 
And  thought  suspended  lie  in  rapture's  hlissful  Tranod 


0  THOU  wild  Fancy,  check  thy  wing  I     No  more 
Those  thin  white  flakes,  those  purple  clouds  explore! 
Nor  there  with  happy  spirits  speed  thy  flight 
Bathed  in  rich  amber-glowing  floods  of  light ; 

Nor  in  yon  gleam,  where  slow  descends  the  day, 

With  western  peasants  hail  the  morning  ray ! 

Ah  I  rather  bid  the  perishe<i  pleasures  move, 

A  shadowy  train,  across  the  soul  of  Love  I 

O'er  Disappointment's  wintry  desert  fling 

Each  flower  that  wreathed  the  dewy  locks  of  Spring, 

When  blushing,  like  a  bride,  from  Hope's  trim  bower 

She  leapt,  awakened  by  the  pattering  shower. 

Now  sheds  the  sinking  Sun  a  deeper  gleam. 

Aid,  lovely  Sorceress  I  aid  thy  Poet's  dream  ! 

With  faery  wand  0  bid  the  Maid  arise. 

Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes  ; 

As  erst  when  from  the  Muses'  calm  abode 

1  came,  with  Learning's  meed  not  unbestowed  ; 
When  as  she  twined  a  laurel  round  my  brow, 
And  met  my  kiss,  and  half  returned  my  vow. 
O'er  all  my  frame  shot  rapid  my  thrilled  heart, 
And  every  nerve  confessed  the  electric  dart. 

0  dear  Deceit  I  I  see  the  Maidsn  rise. 

Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes  I 


When  first  the  lark  high  soaring  swells  his  throat. 
Mocks  the  tired  eye,  and  scatters  the  loud  note, 
I  trace  her  footsteps  on  the  accustomed  lawn, 
I  mark  her  glancing  mid  the  gleam  of  dawn. 
When  the  bent  flower  beneath  the  night-dew  weepM 
And  on  the  lake  the  silver  lustre  sleeps, 
Amid  the  paly  radiance  soft  and  sad, 
h)he  meets  my  lonely  path  in  moon-beams  clad. 
With  her  along  the  streamlet's  brink  I  rove  ; 
With  her  I  list  the  warblings  of  the  grove  ; 
And  seems  in  each  low  wind  her  voice  to  float, 
Lone  whispering  Pity  in  each  soothing  note ! 

Spirits  of  Love  !  ye  heard  her  name  !  Obey 
The  powerful  spell,  and  to  my  haunt  repaii. 
Whether  on  clustering  pinions  ye  are  there, 
Where  rich  snows  blossom  on  the  Myrtle  trees. 
Or  with  fond  languishmcnt  around  my  fair 
8igh  in  the  loose  luxuriance  of  her  hair ; 
0  heed  the  spell,  and  hither  wing  your  way. 
Like  far-oflT  music,  voyaging  the  breeze  ! 

Spirits !  to  you  the  infant  Maid  was  given 
Formed  by  the  wonderous  Alchemy  of  Heaven : 
No  fairer  Maid  does  Love's  wide  empire  know, 
No  fairer  Maid  e'er  heaved  the  bosom's  snow. 
A  thousand  Loves  around  her  forehead  fly  ; 
A  thousand  Loves  sit  melting  in  her  eye  ; 
Love  lights  her  smile — in  Joy's  red  nectar  dips 
Uis  myrtle  flower,  and  plants  it  on  her  lips. 
She  speaks !  and  hark  that  passion- warbled  song  — 
Still,  Fancy  I  still  that  voice,  those  notes  prolong. 
As  sweet  as  when  that  voice  with  rapturous  falls 
Shall  wake  the  softened  echoes  of  Heaven's  Halls 

0  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  God  ! 
A  flower-entangled  Arbor  I  would  seem 
To  shield  my  Love  from  Noontide's  sultry  beam 
Or  bloom  a  Myrtle,  from  whose  odorous  boughs 
My  Love  might  weave  gay  (rarlands  ibr  her  brows. 


When  Twilight  stole  across  the  fading  vale. 
To  fan  my  Love  I'd  be  the  Evening  Gale  ; 
Mourn  in  the  sod  folds  of  her  swelling  vest, 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  Seraph  wing  I'd  float  a  Dream  by  night. 
To  soothe  my  Love  with  shadows  of  delight  :— 
Or  soar  alofl  to  be  the  Spangled  Skies, 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes  ! 

As  when  the  savage,  who  his  drowsy  frame 
Had  basked  beneath  the  Sun's  unclouded  flame, 
Awakes  amid  the  troubles  of  the  air. 
The  skyey  deluge,  and  white  lightning's  glare — 
Aghast  he  scours  before  the  tempest's  sweep. 
And  sad  recalls  the  sunny  hour  of  sleep  : — 
So  tossed  by  storms  along  Life's  wildering  way. 
Mine  eye  reverted  views  that  cloudless  day, 
When  by  my  native  brook  I  wont  to  rove, 
While  Hope  with  kisses  nursed  the  Infant  Love. 

Dear  native  brook  !  like  Peace,  so  placidly 
Smoothing  through  fertile  fields  thy  current  meek 
Dear  native  brook  I  where  first  young  Poesy 
Stared  wildly-eager  in  her  noontide  dream  I 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimple  duiet's  cheek, 
As  water-lilies  ripple  thy  slow  stream  I 
Dear  native  haunts  I  where  Virtue  still  is  gay. 
Where  Friendship's  fix'd  star  sheds  a  mellowed  ray. 
Where  Love  a  crown  of  thornless  Roses  wears, 
Where  softened  Sorrow  smiles  within  her  tears ; 
And  Memory,  with  a  Vestal's  chaste  employ, 
Unceasing  feeds  the  lambent  flame  of  joy  I 
No  more  your  sky-larks  melting  from  the  sight 
Shall  thrill  the  attuned  heart-string  with  delight^ 
!No  more  shall  deck  your  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 
With  ^\^:eaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening  seat. 
Yet  dear  to  Fancy's  eye  your  varied  scene 
Of  wood,  hill,  dale,  and  sparkling  brook  between  ! 
Yet  sweet  to  Fancy's  ear  the  warbled  song, 
That  soars  on  Morning's  wing  your  vales  among. 


Scenes  of  my  Hope  !  the  aching  eye  yoa  leave 
Like  yon  bright  hues  that  paint  the  clouds  of  eve  ; 
Tearful  and  saddcoing  with  the  saddened  blaze 
Mine  eye  the  gleam  pursues  with  wistful  gaze : 
ISecs  sfaodes  on  shades  with  deeper  tint  impend. 
Till  chili  and  damp  the  moonless  night  descend. 

As  late  each  flower  that  aweetct  blows 
I  plucked,  the  Garden's  pride ! 
Within  the  petals  of  a  Rose 
A  sleeping  Love  I  spied. 

Around  his  brows  a.  beamy  wreath 
Of  many  n  lucent  hue  ; 
All  purple  glowed  his  cheek,  beneath, 
Inebriate  with  dew. 

I  sollly  seized  the  unguarded  Power, 
Nor  scared  his  balmy  rest : 
And  placed  him,  caged  within  the  flower, 
On  spotless  Sara's  breast. 

But  when  unweeting  of  the  guile 
Awoke  the  prisoner  sweet. 
He  struggled  to  escape  awhile 
And  stamped  his  faery  feet. 

Ah  !  soon  the  soul  .en  trancing  sight 

Subdued  the  impatient  boy  ! 

He  gazed  1  he  thrilled  with  deep  delight  1 

Theu  clapped  his  wings  for  joy. 

"  And  0 !"  he  cried — "  of  magic  kind 

What  charms  this  Throne  endear ! 

Some  other  Lovo  let  Venus  find— 

I'll  R\  my  empire  here." 



One  kiss,  dear  maid  !  I  said  and  sighed  — 

Your  scorn  the  little  boon  denied. 

Ah  why  refuse  the  blameless  bliss  ? 

Can  danger  lurk  within  a  kiss  ? 

Yon  viewless  Wanderer  of  the  vale, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Western  Gale, 

At  Morning's  break,  at  Evening's  close 

Inhales  the  sweetness  of  the  Rose, 

And  hovers  o'er  the  uninjured  Bloom 

Sighing  back  the  sofl  perfume. 

Vigor  to  the  Zephyr's  wing 

Her  nectar-breathing  Kisses  fling  ; 

And  He  the  glitter  of  the  Dew 

Scatters  on  the  Rose's  hue. 

Bashful  lo  !  she  bends  her  head, 

And  darts  a  blush  of  deeper  Red  ! 

Too  well  those  lovely  lips  disclose 
The  triumphs  of  the  opening  Rose  ; 
0  fair !  0  graceful !  bid  them  prove 
As  passive  to  the  breath  of  Liove. 
Tn  tender  accents,  faint  and  low. 
Well-pleased  I  hear  the  whispered  "  No  I" 
The  whispered  "  No" — how  little  meant ! 
Sweet  Falsehood  that  endears  Consent ! 
For  on  those  lovely  lips  the  while 
Da>\iifi  the  soft  relenting  smile, 
And  tempts  with  feigned  dissuasion  coy 
The  gentle  violence  of  Joy. 


Poor  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  Race  ! 
I  K»ve  the  languid  Patience  of  thy  face  ; 
And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 
And  clap  thy  ragged  Coat,  and  pat  thy  head. 


But  what  thy  dulled  Spints  hath  dismayed, 

That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  ? 

And  (most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young) 

That  earthward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  liuog  ? 

Do  thy  prophetic  Fears  anticipate, 

Meek  Child  of  MJBery  I  thy  future  fate  ? 

The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  ache^ 

"  Which  patient  Merit  of  the  Unworthy  takes  1" 

Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thrilled  with  filial  pain 

To  see  thy  wretched  Mother's  shortened  Chain  ? 

And,  truly  very  piteous  is  her  Lot — 

Chained  to  a  Log  within  a  narrow  spot. 

Where  the  close-eaten  Grass  is  scarcely  seen, 

While  Bweet  arouud  her  waves  the  tempting  Green  I 

Poor  Abb  !  thy  master  should  have  learnt  to  show 

Pily — beat  taught  by  fellowehip  of  Woe  ! 

For  much  I  fear  me  that  He  lives  like  thee, 

Half  famished  in  a  land  of  Luxury  ! 

How  aekingly  its  footsteps  hither  bend, 

It  seems  to  say,  "  And  have  I  then  one  Friend  ?" 

Innocent  Foal  I  thou  poor  despised  Forlorn  ! 

I  hail  thee  Brother — spite  of  the  fool's  scorn  ! 

And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  Dell 

Of  Peace  and  mild  Equality  to  dwell. 

Where  Toil  shall  call  the  charmer  Health  his  faride, 

And  Laughter  ticklo  Plenty's  riblesa  aide  '. 

How  thou  wouldst  toss  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play. 

And  frisk  about,  as  lamb  or  kitten  gay  I 

Yea  !  and  more  musically  swecl  to  me 

Thy  dissonant  harsh  hray  of  joy  would  bo. 

Than  warhled  melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 

The  aching  of  palo  Fashion's  vacant  breast ! 


On  wide,  or  narrow  scale  shall  Man 
Most  happily  describe  life's  plan  ? 
Say,  shall  he  bloom  and  wither  there. 
Where  first  his  infant  buds  aiipear  ; 


Or  upwards  dart  with  soaring  force, 
And  tempt  some  more  ambitious  course  ? 

Obedient  now  to  Hope's  command, 
I  bid  each  humble  -wish  expand, 
And  fair  and  bright  Life's  prospects  seem* 
While  Hope  displays  her  cheering  beam, 
And  Fancy's  vivid  colorings  stream, 
While  Emulation  stands  me  nigh 
The  Goddess  of  the  eager  eye. 

With  foot  advanc'd  and  anxious  heart 
Now  for  the  fancied  goal  I  start : — 
Ah  I  why  will  Reason  intervene 
Me  and  my  promised  joys  between  I 
She  stops  my  course,  she  chains  my  speed 
While  thus  her  forceful  words  proceed. 
"  Ah  I  listen,  youth,  ere  yet  too  late. 
What  evils  on  thy  course  may  wait  I 
To  bow  the  head,  to  bend  the  knee 
A  minion  of  Servility, 
At  low  Pride's  frequent  frowns  to  sigh, 
And  watch  the  glance  in  Folly's  eye  ; 
To  toil  intense,  vet  toil  in  vain, 
And  feel  with  what  a  hollow  pain 
Pale  Disappointment  hangs  her  head 
O'er  darling  Expectation  dead  I 

"  The  scene  is  changed  and  Fortune's  gale 
Shall  belly  out  each  prosperous  sail. 
Yet  sudden  wealth  full  well  I  know 
Did  never  Happiness  bestow. 
That  wealth,  to  which  we  were  not  born 
Dooms  us  to  sorrow  or  to  scorn. 
Behold  yon  flock  which  long  had  trod 
O'er  the  short  grass  of  Devon's  sod, 
To  Lincoln's  rank  rich  meads  transferr'd, 
And  in  their  fate  thy  own  be  fear'd  ; 
Through  every  limb  contagions  fly, 
Deform'd  and  chok'd  they  burst  and  die. 

"  When  Luxury  opens  wide  her  arms, 
And  smiling  woos  thee  to  those  charms. 


Whose  fasciuation  thousands  own, 
Shall  thy  brows  wear  the  stoic  frown  ? 
And  when  her  goblet  she  extends 
Which  madd'ning  myiiadg  press  around, 
What  power  divine  thy  soul  befriends 
That  thou  shouldst  dash  it  to  the  ground  ? — 
No,  thou  shall  drink,  and  thou  shalt  liuow 
Her  transient  hliss,  her  lasting  woe, 
Her  maniac  joys,  that  know  no  measure. 
And  riot  rude  and  painted  pleasure ; — 
Till  (sad  reverse  I)  the  Enchantress  vile 
To  frowns  converts  her  tn^o  smile  ; 
Her  train  impatient  to  destroy, 
Observe  her  fro\ni  with  gloomy  joy  ; 
On  thee  with  harpy  fangs  they  seize 
The  hideous  ofTspring  of  Disease, 
SwoU'ii  Dropsy  ignorant  of  Rest, 
And  Fever  garb'd  in  scarlet  vest. 
Consumption  driving  the  quick  hearse. 
And  Gout  that  howls  the  frequent  cum. 
With  Apoplex  of  heavy  head 
That  surely  aims  his  dart  of  lead. 

"But  say.  Life's  joys  immix'd  were  giTCU 
To  iheo  some  favorite  of  Heaven  : 
Within,  without,  tho'  all  were  health — 
Yet  what  o'en  thus  arc  Fainu,  Power,  Wealth, 
But  sounds  that  variously  express, 
What's  thine  already — Happiness ! 
'Tis  thine  the  converse  deep  to  hold 
With  all  the  famous  sons  of  old  ; 
And  thine  the  happy  waking  dream 
While  Hope  pursues  some  favorite  theme. 
As  oft  when  M'^ht  o'er  Heaven  is  spread. 
Round  this  maternal  scat  you  tread. 
Where  far  from  splendor,  far  from  riot. 
In  silence  wrapt  sleeps  careless  quiet. 
'Tis  thino  with  fancy  oft  to  talk, 
And  thine  tho  peaceful  evening  walk  ; 
And  what  to  thee  the  sweetest  are — 
The  aetliug  sun,  the  eveiiiuir  star — 

i8  JUVENILE  1'0£M& 

The  tints,  which  live  along  the  sky, 
And  Moon  that  meets  thy  raptured  eyo, 
Where  ofl  the  tear  shall  grateful  start, 
Dear  silent  pleasures  of  the  Heart ! 
Ah  !  Being  hlest,  for  Heaven  shall  lend 
To  share  thy  simple  joys  a  friend  ! 
Ah !  douhly  hlest,  if  Love  supply 
His  influence  to  complete  thy  joy, 
If  chance  some  lovely  maid  thou  find 
To  read  thy  visage  in  thy  mind. 

"  One  blessing  more  demands  thy  care : — 
Once  more  to  Heaven  address  the  prayer : 
For  humble  independence  pray 
The  guardian  genius  of  thy  way ; 
"WTiom  (sages  say)  in  days  of  yore 
Meek  competence  to  wisdom  bore, 
So  shall  thy  little  vessel  glide 
With  a  fair  breeze  adown  the  tide, 
And  Hope,  if  e'er  thou  'ginst  to  sorrow 
Remind  thee  of  some  fair  to-morrow, 
Till  death  shall  close  thy  tranquil  eye 
While  Faith  proclaims  *  thou  shalt  not  die  I 


Tell  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  Domestic  Peace  be  found — 
Halcyon  Daughter  of  the  skies  ! 
Far  on  fearful  wings  she  flies, 
From  the  pomp  of  sceptercd  State, 
From  the  Rebel's  noisy  hate, 
In  a  cottaged  vale  She  dwells 
Listening  to  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen 
Spotless  Honor's  meeker  mien. 
Love,  the  sire  of  pleasing  fears. 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears. 
And  conscious  of  the  past  employ 
Memory,  bosom-spring  of  joy. 



yfuEH  Youth  his  faery  reign  began 
Ere  lorrow  had  proulaimed  me  man  ; 
While  Peace  the  present  hour  beguiled. 
And  all  the  lovely  Prospect  smiled ; 
Then  Mary  !  'mid  my  Lightwrae  gleo 
I  heav'd  the  painless  Sigh  for  thee. 

And  when,  along  the  waves  of  woe. 
My  harasBcd  Heart  was  doomed  to  know 
Tha  frantic  hurst  of  Oulrage  kemi, 
And  the  slow  Pang  that  gnaws  unseen  ; 
Then  Bhipwreckcd  on  Lite's  stormy  sea 
--  1  heaved  an  anguinliuJ  Sigh  for  thee  ! 

~  But  soon  Reflection's  power  imprest 
A  stiller  sadness  on  my  breast ; 
And  sickly  hope  with  waning  eye 
Was  well  content  to  droop  and  die  : 
T  yielded  to  the  stern  decree, 
Yet  heaved  a  languid  Sigh  for  thee  ! 

And  though  in  distant  climes  to  roam, 
A  wanderer  from  my  native  home, 
I  fain  would  soothe  the  sense  of  Care, 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  Joys  that  were, 
Thy  Image  may  not  banished  be — 
Still,  Mary  !  still  1  sigh  for  thee. 
June  179J. 


Kr.E  Sin  conld  blight  or  Sorrow  fade. 
Death  came  with  friendly  care, 

Tlie  opening  bud  to  Heaven  conveyed. 
And  bade  it  blossom  there. 

fOL.   VII  0 



All  are  not  bom  to  soar — and  ah  !  how  few 

In  tracks,  where  TVisdom  leads,  their  paths  puisne  ! 

Contagious  when  to  wit  or  wealth  allied, 

Folly  and  Vice  difiuse  their  venom  wide. 

On  Folly  every  fool  his  talent  tries  ; 

It  asks  some  toil  to  imitate  the  wise ; 

Tho'  few  like  Fox  can  speak — like  Pitt  can  think— 

Yet  all  like  Fox  can  game — ^like  Pitt  can  drink. 


O,  Curas  homlniui]  I  O,  qoantam  est  in  rebus  ioane  1 

The  fervid  Sun  had  more  than  halv'd  the  day,  . 

When  gloomy  on  his  couch  Philedon  lay ; 

His  feeble  frame  consumptive  as  his  purse,  -    . 

His  aching  head  did  wine  and  women  curse ; 

His  fortune  ruin'd  and  his  wealth  decayed. 

Clamorous  his  Duns,  his  gaming  debts  unpaid, 

The  youth  indignant  seiz'd  his  tailor's  bill, 

And  on  its  back  thus  wrote  with  moral  quill : 

*'  Various  as  colors  in  the  rainbow  shown. 

Or  similar  in  emptiness  alone, 

How  false,  how  vain  are  Man's  pursuits  below ! 

Wealth,  Honor,  Pleasure — what  can  ye  bestow  ? 

Yet  see,  how  high  and  low,  and  young  and  old 

Pursue  the  all  delusive  power  of  Gold. 

Fond  man  !  should  all  Peru  thy  empire  own. 

For  thee  tho*  all  Golconda's  jewels  shone. 

What  greater  bliss  could  all  this  wealth  supply  ? 

What,  but  to  eat  and  drink  and  sleep  and  die  ? 

Go,  tempt  the  stormy  sea,  the  burning  soil — 

Go,  waste  the  night  in  thought,  the  day  in  toil. 

Dark  frowns  the  rock,  and  fierce  the  tempests  ravo — 

Thy  ingots  go  the  unconscious  deep  to  pave  ! 

Or  thunder  at  thy  door  the  midnight  train, 

Or  death  shall  knock  that  never  knocks  in  vain. 

Next  Honor's  sons  come  bustling  on  amain  ; 

I  laugh  with  pity  at  the  idle  train. 


Infirm  of  soul !  who  think'st  to  lift  thy  name 

ITpon  the  waxen  wings  of  human  fame, — 

Who  for  a  sound,  articulated  breath — 

Gazest  undaunted  in  the  face  of  death  ! 

What  art  thou  but  a  Meteor's  glaring  light — 

Blazing  a  moment  and  then  sunk  in  night  ? 

Caprice  which  rais'd  thee  high  shall  hurl  thee  low. 

Or  envy  blast  the  laurels  on  thy  brow. 

To  sneh  poor  joys  could  ancient  Honor  lead 

When  empty  fame  was  toiling  Merita  mead  ; 

To  Modem  Honor  other  lays  belong  ; 

Profuse  of  joy  and  Lord  of  right  and  wrong. 

Honor  can  game,  drink,  riot  in  the  stew. 

Cut  a  friend's  throat ; — what  can  not  Honor  do  ? 

Ah  me — the  storm  within  can  Honor  still 

For  Julio's  death,  whom  Honor  made  me  kill  ? 

Or  will  this  lordly  Honor  tell  the  way 

To  pay  those  debte,  which  Honor  makes  me  pay  ? 

Or  if  with  pistol  and  terrific  threats 

I  make  some  traveller  pay  my  Honor's  debts, 

A  med'cine  forthb  wound  can  Honor  give  ? 

Ah,  no  1  my  Honor  dies  to  make  my  Honor  live. 

But  see  !  young  Pleasure  and  hor  train  advance. 

And  joy  and  laughter  wake  the  inebriate  dance  ; 

Around  my  neck  she  throws  her  fair  white  arms, 

I  meet  her  loves,  and  madden  at  her  charms. 

For  the  gay  grape  can  joys  celestial  move, 

And  what  so  sweet  below  as  Woman's  love  ? 

With  such  high  transport  every  moment  (lies, 

I  curse  experience,  that  he  makes  me  wise ; 

For  at  his  frown  the  dear  deliriums  Qew, 

And  the  cbang'd  scene  now  wears  a  gloomy  hn«. 

A  hideous  hag  th'  Enchantress  Pleasure  seems. 

And  all  her  joys  appear  but  feverous  dreams 

The  vain  Resolve  still  broken  and  still  made. 

Disease  and  loathing  and  remorse  invade  ; 

The  charm  is  vanish'd  and  the  bubble's  broke,-* 

A  slave  to  pleasure  is  a  slave  to  smoke  I" 

Such  lays  repentant  did  the  Muse  supply  ; 

When  as  the  Snn  was  hastening  down  the  sky, 

62  JUV£NIL£   PO£MS. 

In  glittering  state  twice  fifly  guineas  come, — 

His  Mother's  plate  antique  had  rais*d  the  sum 

Forth  leap'd  Philedon  of  new  life  possest : — 

*Twas  Brookes's  all  till  two, — 'twas  Hackett's  all  the  lett  * 


Deep  in  the  gulf  of  Vice  and  Woe 

Leaps  man  at  once  with  headlong  throw  ? 

Him  inborn  Truth  and  Virtue  guide, 

Whose  guards  are  shame  and  conscious  pride ; 

In  some  gay  hour  Vice  steals  into  the  breast ; 

Perchance  she  wears  some  sofler  Virtue's  vest. 

By  unperceiv'd  degrees  she  tempts  to  stray, 
Till  far  from  Virtue's  path  she  leads  the  feet  away. 

Then  swifl  the  soul  to  disenthrall 

Will  Memory  the  past  recall, 

And  fear  before  the  Victim's  eyes 

Bid  future  ills  and  dangers  rise. 
But  hark  I  the  voice,  the  lyre,  their  charms  combined- 
Gay  sparkles  in  the  cup  the  generous  wine ; 
Th'  inebriate  dance — the  fair  frail  nymph  inspires, 
And  Virtue  vanquish'd — scorn'd — with  hasty  flight  retires. 

But  soon  to  tempt  the  pleasures  cease  ; 
Yet  shame  forbids  return  to  peace, 
And  stern  necessity  will  force 


Still  to  urge  on  the  desperate  course. 
The  drear  black  paths  of  Vice  the  wretch  must  try, 
Where  Conscience  flashes  horror  on  each  eye, 
Where  Hate — where  Murder  scowl — where  starts  AJTright ! 
Ah  I  close  the  scene, — ah  I  close — for  dreadful  is  the  sight. 



THE    *•  MAX   OF   ROSS." 

Richer  than  Miser  o'er  his  countless  hoards, 
Nobler  than  Kings,  or  king-polluted  Lords, 


Here  dwelt  iho  Man  of  Roes  I     0  TraveLer,  hear  ! 

Departed  Merit  claims  a  reverent  teat. 

Friend  to  the  frieadless,  to  the  sick  man  health, 

With  geuerouB  joy  he  viewed  his  modest  wealth  ; 

He  heard  the  widow's  heaven- breathed  prayer  of  praise 

He  marked  the  sheltered  orphan's  tearful  gaze, 

Or  where  the  sorrow  shrivelled  captive  lay, 

Pour'd  the  bright  blaze  of  Freedom's  noon-tide  ray, 

Bi-neath  this  roof  if  thy  cheered  moments  pass, 

Fill  to  the  good  man's  name  one  grateful  glass  : 

To  higher  zest  shall  Memory  wake  thy  soul, 

And  Virtue  mingle  in  the  ennobled  bowl. 

But  if,  like  me,  through  life's  distressful  scene 

Lonely  and  sad  thy  pilgrimage  hath  been  ; 

And  if  thy  breast  with  heart-sick  anguish  fraught. 

Thou  joumeyest  onward  tempest-tossed  in  thought 

Here  cheat  thy  cares  !  in  generous  visions  melt, 

And  dream  of  Goodness,  thou  hast  never  felt ' 


Heabd'st  thou  yon  universal  cry, 

And  doat  thou  linger  still  on  flallia's  shore  ? 
Go,  Tyranny  1  beneath  some  barbarous  sky 
Thy  terrors  lost,  and  ruin'd  power  deplore  t 

What  tho'  through  many  a  groaning  age 

Was  felt  thy  keen  suspicious  rage, 

Yet  Freedom  rous'd  by  fierce  Disdain 

Has  wildly  broke  thy  triple  chain, 
And  like  tho  storm  which  earth's  deep  entrails  hide, 
At  length  has  burst  its  way  and  spread  the  ruins  wide 

In  sighs  their  sickly  breath  was  spent ;  each  gleam 
Of  Hope  had  ceas'd  the  long  long  clay  to  cheer  ; 

Or  if  delusive,  in  some  flitting  dream. 

It  gave  them  to  their  friends  and  children  dear— 


Awak'd  by  lordly  Insult's  sound 
To  all  the  doubled  horrors  round, 
Oft  shrunk  they  from  Oppression's  band 
While  anguish  rais'd  the  desperate  hand 
For  silent  death  ;  or  lost  the  mind's  control, 
Thro'  every  burning  vein  would  tides  of  Frenzy  roll 


But  cease,  ye  pitying  bosoms,  cease  to  bleed ! 

Such  scenes  no  more  demand  the  tear  humane ; 
I  see,  I  see  !  glad  Liberty  succeed 
With  every  patriot  virtue  in  her  train ! 
And  mark  yon  peasant's  raptured  eyes  ; 
Secure  he  views  his  harvests  rise  ; 
No  fetter  vile  the  mind  shall  know, 
And  Eloquence  shall  fearless  glow. 
Yes  !  Liberty  the  soul  of  Life  shall  reign, 
Shall  throb  in  every  pulse,  shall  flow  thro'  every  vein ! 


Shall  France  alone  a  Despot  spurn  ? 

Shall  she  alone,  0  Freedom,  boast  thy  care  ? 
Lo,  round  thy  standard  Belgia's  heroes  burn, 

Tho*  Power's  blood-stain'd  streamers  fire  the  air, 

And  wider  yet  thy  influence  spread, 

Nor  e'er  recline  thy  weary  head, 

Till  every  land  from  pole  to  pole 

Shall  boast  one  independent  soul  ! 
And  still,  as  erst,  let  favor'd  Britain  be 
•First  ever  of  the  first  and  freest  of  the  free  I 



Once  more,  sweet  Stream  !  with  slow  foot  wandenng  near, 
I  bless  thy  milky  waters  cold  and  clear. 
Escaped  the  flashing  of  the  noontide  hours, 
With  one  fresh  garland  of  Pierian  flowers 
(Ere  from  thy  zephyr-haunted  brink  I  turn) 
My  languid  hand  shall  wreath  thy  mossy  urn. 
For  not  through  pathless  grove  with  murmur  rude 
Thou  soothest  the  sad  wood-nymph,  Solitude  ; 


Nor  thine  uiueen  ia  caTern  depths  to  well. 
The  heraiit-fouiitaiti  of  Bome  dripping  cell ! 
PriJe  of  the  Vale  !  thy  useful  Btreams  (upply 
The  scattered  coti  and  peaceful  hamlet  nigh. 
The  elfin  tribe  around  thy  friendly  banks 
With  infant  uproar  and  loul-soothing  pranks, 
Released  from  school,  their  little  hearts  at  rest. 
Launch  paper-naries  on  thy  waveless  breast. 
The  rustic  here  at  eve  with  penaive  look 
Whistling  lorn  ditties.leana  upon  his  crook, 
Or  starting  pauses  with  hope-mingled  dread 
To  list  the  much-loved  maid's  accustomed  tread  : 
She,  vainly  mindful  of  her  dame's  command. 
Loiters,  the  long-filled  pitcher  in  her  hand. 

Unboastfal  Stream  !  thy  fount  with  pebbled  falls 
The  faded  form  of  past  delight  recalls. 
What  time  the  morning  sun  of  Hope  arose, 
And  all  was  joy  ;  save  when  another's  woes 
A  transient  gloom  upon  my  soul  imprest. 
Like  passing  clouds  impictured  on  thy  breast. 
Life's  current  then  ran  sparkling  to  the  noon. 
Or  silvery  stole  beneath  the  pensive  Moon  : 
Ah  !  now  it  works  rude  brakes  and  thorns  among. 
Or  o'er  the  rough  rock  bursts  and  foams  along  '. 



Edhond  !  thy  grave  with  aching  eye  1  scan. 

And  inly  groan  lor  Heaven's  poor  outcast — Man  ! 

'Tis  tempest  all  or  gloom  :  in  early  youth 

If  gifled  with  the  Ithuriei  lance  of  Truth 

We  force  to  start  amid  her  feigned  caress  ■ 

Vice,  siren-hag  !  in  native  ugliness  ; 

A  Brother's  fate  will  haply  rouse  the  tear. 

And  on  we  go  in  heaviness  and  fear  I 

But  if  our  fond  heurts  call  to  Pleasure's  bower 

Some  pigmy  Folly  in  a  careless  hour. 

The  faithless  guest  shall  stamp  the  enchanted  gtonni. 

56  JUVfiNlLB  POBMS. 

And  mingled  forms  of  Misery  rise  around  : 

Heart-fretting  Fear,  with  pallid  look  aghast. 

That  courts  the  future  woe  to  hide  the  past ; 

Remorse,  the  poisoned  arrow  in  his  side, 

And  loud  lewd  Mirth,  to  Anguish  close  allied  : 

Till  Frenzy,  fierce-eyed  child  of  moping  pain. 

Darts  her  hot  lightning-flash  athwart  the  brain. 

Rest,  injur'd  shade  !     Shall  Slander  squatting  near 

Spit  her  cold  venom  in  a  dead  Man's  ear  ? 

Twas  thine  to  feel  the  sympathetic  glow 

In  Merit's  joy,  and  Poverty's  meek  woe  ; 

Thine  all,  that  cheer  the  moment  as  it  flies, 

The  zoneless  Cares,  and  smihng  Courtesies. 

Nursed  in  thy  heart  the  firmer  Virtues  grew. 

And  in  thy  heart  they  withered  I     Such  chill  dew 

Wan  Indolence  on  each  young  blossom  shed  ; 

And  Vanity  her  filmy  net- work  spread. 

With  eye  that  rolled  around  in  asking  gaze, 

And  tonjnie  that  trafficked  in  the  trade  of  praise. 

Thy  i<»llie8  such  I  the  hard  world  marked  them  well ! 

Were  they  more  wise,  the  proud  who  never  fell  ? 

Rest,  injured  shade  !  the  poor  man's  grateful  prayer 

On  heaven-ward  wing  the  wounded  soul  shall  bear. 

As  ofl  at  twilight  gloom  thy  grave  I  pass, 

And  sit  me  down  upon  its  recent  grass, 

With  introverted  eye  I  contemplate 

Similitude  of  soul,  perhaps  of — fate  ; 

To  me  hath  Heaven  with  bounteous  hand  assigned 

Energic  Reason  and  a  shaping  mind, 

The  daring  ken  of  Truth,  the  Patriot's  part. 

And  Pity's  sigh,  that  breathes  the  gentle  heart. 

Sloth-jaundiced  all !  and  from  my  graspless  hand 

Drop  Friendship's  precious  pearls,  like  hour-glass  sand. 

I  weep,  yet  stoop  not !  the  faint  anguish  flows, 

A  dreamy  pang  in  Morning's  feverous  doze. 

Is  this  piled  earth  our  Being's  passless  mound  ? 
Tell  me,  cold  grave  I  is  death  with  poppies  crowned  ? 
Tired  Sentinel !  mid  fitful  starts  I  nod, 
And  fain  would  sleep,  though  pillowed  on  a  clod  ! 


TO   A    yODNO  LADY, 

MccH  on  my  early  youth  I  love  to  dwell. 

Ere  yet  I  baJe  that  friendly  dome  farewell, 

Where  firet,  beneath  the  echoing  cloiBters  pale, 

1  heard  of  guilt  and  wondered  at  the  tale  1 

Yet  though  the  hours  flew  by  on  careless  wing. 

Full  heavily  of  Sorrow  would  1  Eiiig. 

Aye  HB  the  Etsr  of  evening  flung  its  beam 

In  broken  radiance  on  the  wary  Btrcam. 

My  Boul  amid  the  pensive  twilight  gloom 

Mourned  with  the  breeze,  0  Lee  Boo  1*  o'er  thy  tomb 

Where'er  I  wandered.  Pity  still  was  near. 

Breathed  from  the  heart  and  glistened  in  the  tear  : 

No  knell  that  lolled,  bnt  filled  my  aiixiouB  eye, 

And  Buffering  Nature  wept  that  one  should  die  !t 

Thus  to  Bad  sympathies  I  soothed  my  breast, 

Calm,  as  the  rainbow  in  the  weeping  WeH  : 

When  slumbering  Freedom  roused  by  high  Disdain 

With  giant  fury  burst  her  triple  chain  ! 

Fierce  on  her  front  the  blasting  Dog-star  glowed  ; 

Her  bannen),  like  a  miduight  meteor,  flowed  ; 

Amid  the  yelling  of  the  storm-rent  skies 

She  came,  and  Ecattcrcd  battles  from  her  eyes ! 

Then  Esultatinn  waked  the  patriot-lire 

And  swept  with  wild  hand  the  Tyrta^an  lyre  : 

Red  from  the  Tyrant's  wound  I  shook  the  lanee, 

And  strode  in  joy  the  recking  plains  of  France  ! 

Fallen  is  the  oppreeaor,  fricndlees,  gliastly,  low. 
And  my  heart  aches,  though  Mercy  struck  the  blow. 
With  wearied  thought  once  more  1  seek  the  shade, 
Where  peaceful  Virtue  weaves  the  myrtle  hraid. 

'  L««  Boo,  the  Bon  of  Abbn  1'liule,  Trince  of  the  Pelev  Isluida.  eamt 
oter  to  England  with  Captain  Wilson,  died  of  the  small-poi.  and  is  burieil 
io  QrcMivich  cburcb-yard.    3ce  Keate'a  AcuaunL 

f  Southey'a  B«tro«pci;l. 


And  0  !  if  Eyes  whose  holy  glances  roll, 
Swift  messengers,  and  eloquent  of  soul ; 
If  Smiles  more  winning,  and  a  gentler  Mien 
Than  the  love-wildered  Maniac's  brain  hath  seen 
Shaping  celestial  forms  in  vacant  air, 
If  these  demand  the  impassioned  Poet's  care^ 
If  Mirth  and  soflened  Sense  and  Wit  refined, 
The  blameless  features  of  a  lovely  mind  ; 
Then  haply  shaU  my  trembling  hand  assign 
No  fading  wreath  to  Beauty's  saintly  shrine. 
Nor,  Sara  I  thou  these  early  flowers  refuse — 
Ne'er  lurked  the  snake  beneath  their  simple  hues  ; 
No  purple  bloom  the  Child  of  Nature  brings 
From  Flattery's  night-shade  :  as  he  feels  he  singi. 
September,  1792. 


"  Content,  as  random  Fancies  might  inspire, 
If  his  weak  harp  at  times  or  lonely  lyre 
He  struck  with  desultorv  hand,  and  drew 
Some  softened  tones  to  Nature  not  untrue." 


My  heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles  I  for  those  sofl  strainf 

Whose  sadness  soothes  me,  like  the  murmuring 

Of  wild-bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring  ! 

For  hence  not  callous  to  the  mourner's  pains 

Throunrh. Youth's  gay  prime  and  thornless  paths  I  went: 

And  when  the  mightier  throes  of  mind  began, 

And  drove  me  forth,  a  thought-bewildered  man, 

Their  mild  and  manliest  melancholy  lent 

A  mingled  charm,  such  as  the  pang  consigned 

To  slumber,  though  the  big  tear  it  renewed  ; 

Bidding  a  strange  mysterious  Pleasure  brood 

Over  the  wavy  and  tumultuous  mind. 

As  the  great  Spirit  erst  with  plastic  sweep 

Moved  on  the  darkness  of  the  unformed  deep. 



As  late  I  lay  in  slumber's  shadowy  vale, 

'^ith  wetted  cheek  and  in  a  mourner's  guise, 

I  saw  the  sainted  form  of  Freedom  rise  ; 

She  spake  !  not  sadder  moans  the  autumnal  gal^— 

'  Great  Son  of  Genius  !  sweet  to  me  thy  name, 

Ere  in  an  evil  hour  with  altered  voice 

rhou  bad'st  Oppression's  hireling  crew  rejoice 

Blasting  with  wizard  spell  my  laurelled  fame. 

Yet  never,  Burke  I  thou  drank' st  Corruption's  bowl . 

Thee  stormy  Pity  and  the  cherished  lute 

Of  Pomp,  and  proud  Precipitance  of  soul 

Wildered  with  meteor  (ires.     Ah  Spirit  pur.) ! 

That  error's  mist  had  left  thy  purged  eye : 

So  might  I  clasp  thee  with  a  Uother's  joy  !" 


Thouoh  roused  by  that  dark  Vizir  Riot  rode 
Have  driven  our  Priestley  o'er  the  ocean  swell ; 
Though  Superstition  and  her  wolfish  brood 
Bay  his  mild  radiance,  impotent  and  fell ; 
Calm  in  his  halls  of  brightness  he  shall  dwell ! 
For  lo !  Religion  at  his  strong  behest 
Starts  with  mild  anger  from  the  Papal  spell, 
And  flings  to  earth  her  tinsel-gUlteriog  vest, 
Her  mitred  state  and  cumbrous  pomp  unholy  ; 
And  Justice  wakes  to  bid  tho  Oppressor  wail 
Insulting  aye  the  wrongs  of  patient  Folly  : 
And  from  her  dark  retreat  by  Wisdom  won 
Meek  Nature  slowly  lifts  her  matron  veil 
To  smile  with  fondness  on  her  gazing  son  ! 

When  British  Freedom  for  a  happier  land 
Spread  her  broad  wiuga,  that  fluttered  with  aSHght, 
Enkine  I  thy  voice  she  heard,  and  paused  her  flight 
Sublime  of  hope  '.     For  dreadless  thou  didit  stand 


(Thy  censer  glowing  with  the  hallowed  flame) 

A  hircless  Priest  before  the  insulted  shrine, 

And  at  her  altar  pour  the  stream  divine 

Of  unmatched  eloquence.     Therefore  thy  name 

Hor  sons  shall  venerate,  and  cheer  thy  breast 

With  blessings  heaven-ward  breathed.     And  when  the  doom 

Of  nature  bids  thee  die,  beyond  the  tomb 

Thy  light  shall  shine  :  as  sunk  beneath  the  West 

Though  the  great  Summer  Sun  eludes  our  gaze. 

Still  burns  wide  Heaven  with  his  distended  blaze. 


It  was  some  Spirit,  Sheridan  !  that  breathed 

O'er  thy  young  mind  such  wildly  various  power ! 

My  soul  hath  marked  thee  in  her  shaping  hour. 

Thy  temples  with  Hymmettian  flowerets  wreathed . 

And  sweet  thy  voice,  as  when  o'er  Laura's  bier 

Sad  music  trembled  through  Vauclusa*s  glade ; 

Sweet,  as  at  dawn  the  love-lorn  Serenade 

That  wafts  soft  dreams  to  Slumber's  listening  ear. 

Now  patriot  rage  and  indignation  high 

Swell  the  full  tones  I     And  now  thine  eye-beams  dance 

Meanings  of  Soorn  and  Wit's  quaint  revelry  I 

Writhes  inly  from  the  bosom-probing  glance 

The  Apostate  by  the  brainless  rout  adored, 

As  erst  that  elder  Fiend  beneath  great  Michael's  sword 


0  WHAT  a  loud  and  fearful  shriek  was  there, 

As  though  a  thousand  souls  one  death-groan  poured ! 

Ah  me  I  they  saw  beneath  a  hireling's  sword 

Their  Kosciusko  fall  I     Through  the  swart  air 

(As  pauses  the  tired  Cofsac's  barbarous  yell 

Of  triumph)  on  the  chill  and  midnight  gale 

Rises  with  frantic  burst  or  sadder  swell 

The  dirge  of  murdered  Hope  I  while  Freedom  pala 

Bends  in  such  anguish  o  er  her  destined  bier. 


All  if  from  eldest  time  some  Spirit  meek 

Had  gathered  in  a  inystii^  urn  each  tear 

That  ever  oh  a  Patriot's  furrowed  cheek 

Fit  channel  found,  and  she  had  drained  the  bowl 

In  the  mere  wilfultiess,  and  sick  despair  of  soul! 


As  when  far  off  the  warliled  slraiiis  are  heard 

That  soar  on  Morning's  wing  the  vales  among, 

Within  his  cage  the  imprisozietl  matin  bird 

Swells  the  full  chorus  with  a  gencraua  soug  ' 

He  bathes  no  pinion  iu  the  dewy  lighi, 

No  Father's  joy,  no  Lover's  bliss  be  shares, 

Yet  still  the  rising  radiance  cheers  his  sigh'  ; 

His  fellon's'  freedom  soothes  the  captive's  cares  ! 

Thou,  Fayette  !  who  didst  wake  with  startling  voice 

Life's  better  snn  from  that  long  wintrj- night,     , 

Thus  in  thy  Country's  tiiiimphs  shall  rejoice, 

And  mock  with  raptures  high  the  dungeon's  inii[ht : 

For  io  !  the  morning  struggles  into  day. 

And  Slavery's  spectres  sliriek  and  vanish  from  the  ^av ! 


Tlion  gentle  Look,  that  didst  my  soni  beguile. 

Why  hast  tliou  Icfl  me  ?  Still  in  some  fond  dream 

Bevisit  my  sad  heart,  auspicious  Smile  ! 

As  falls  on  closicig  flowers  the  lunar  beam  : 

What  time,  in  aiekly  mood,  at  parting  day 

I  lajr  me  down  and  think  of  happier  years ; 

Of  Jnys,  that  glimmered  in  Hope's  twilight  ray, 

Then  lefl  me  darkling  iu  a  vale  of  tears. 

0  pleasant  days  of  hope — forever  gone  ! — 

Could  I  recall  you  !— But  that  thought  is  vain. 

Availeth  not  Persuasion's  sweetest  tone 

To  lure  the  fleet-winged  Travellers  back  again  : 

Yet  fair,  though  faint,  their  images  shall  f>leam 

Like  the  bright  Rainbow  on  a  willowy  atream. 



Pale  Eoamer  through  the  night !  thou  poor  Forlorn  ! 

Remorse  that  man  on  his  death-hed  possess, 

Who  in  the  credulous  hour  of  tenderness 

Betrayed,  then  cast  thee  forth  to  want  and  scorn  I 

The  world  is  pitiless  :  the  chaste  one's  pride 

Mimic  of  Virtue  scowls  on  thy  distress : 

Thy  Loves  and  they,  that  envied  thee,  deride  : 

And  Vice  alone  will  shelter  wretchedness ! 

0  !  I  could  weep  to  think,  that  there  should  be 

Cold- bosomed  lewd  ones,  who  endure  to  place 

Foul  oHerings  on  the  shrine  of  misery. 

And  force  from  famine  the  caress  of  Love  ; 

May  He  shed  healing  on  the  sore  disgrace, 

He,  the  great  Comforter  that  rules  above  ! 


Sweet  Mercy  I  how  my  ver)'  heart  has  bled 

To  see  thee,  poor  Old  Man  !  and  thy  gray  hairs 

Hoar  with  the  snowy  blast :  while  no  one  cares 

To  clothe  thy  shrivelled  limbs  and  palsied  head. 

My  Father  I  throw  away  this  tattered  vest 

That  mocks  thy  shivering !  take  my  garment — ^use 

A  young  man's  arm  !  I'll  melt  these  frozen  dews 

That  hang  from  thy  white  beard  and  numb  thy  breast. 

My  Sara  too  shall  tend  thee,  like  a  Child : 

And  thou  shalt  talk,  in  our  fireside's  recess, 

Of  purple  pride,  that  scowls  on  wretchedness. 

He  did  not  so,  the  Galilean  mild, 

Who  met  the  Lazars  turned  from  rich  men's  doors. 

And  called  them  Friends,  and  healed  their  noisome  tores ! 


Thou  bleedest,  my  poor  Heart !  and  thy  distress 
Reason ing  I  ponder  with  a  scornful  smile, 
And  probe  thy  sore  wound  sternly,  though  the  while 
Swoln  be  mine  eye  and  dim  with  heaviness. 


Vthy  didst  thon  liaten  to  Hope's  whisper  bland  ? 
Or,  listening,  why  forftet  the  healing  tale, 
When  Jealousy  with  feveroua  fancies  pale 
Jarred  thy  fine  fibres  with  a  maniac's  band  ? 
Faint  was  that  Hope,  and  layless! — Yet  'twas  fair. 
And  soothed  with  many  a  dream  the  hour  of  rest : 
Thou  shouldst  have  loved  it  most,  when  most  opprett. 
And  nursed  it  with  an  agony  of  care. 
Even  as  a  Mother  her  sweet  infant  heir 
That  wan  and  sickly  droops  upon  her  breast ! 


Schiller.  '.  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die. 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tower  time- rent 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famished  Father's  cry — 
Lest  in  some  after-moment  aught  more  mean 
Might  stamp  me  mortal !     A  triumphant  shout 
Black  Horror  screamed,  and  all  her  goblin  rout 
Diminished  shrunk  from  the  more  withering  scene ! 
Ah  !  Bard  tremendous  in  sublimity  ! 
Could  I  behold  thee  in  thy  loftier  mood 
Wandering  at  eve  with  finely  frenzied  eye 
Beneath  some  vast  old  tempest-swinging  wood  '. 
Awhile  with  mute  awe  gazing  I  would  brood  : 
Then  weep  aloud  in  a  wild  ecstasy. 


Wrm  many  a  pause  and  oft-reverted  eye 
I  climb  the  Coomb's  ascent :  sweet  songsters  nc 
Warble  in  shade  their  wild-wood  melody  ; 
Far  oS  the  unvarying  Cuckoo  soothes  my  ear. 
Up  scour  the  startling  stragglers  of  the  Flock 


That  on  green  plots  o'er  precipices  browse : 

From  the  deep  fissures  of  the  naked  rock 

The  Yew  tree  bursts !    Beneath  its  dark  green  boughfl 

(Mid  which  the  May-thorn  blends  its  biossoms  white) 

AVhere  broad  smooth  stones  jut  out  in  mossy  seats, 

I  rest : — and  now  have  gained  the  topmost  site. 

Ah  !  what  a  luxury  of  landscape  meets 

My  gaze  !     Proud  towers,  and  cots  more  dear  to  me, 

Eim-shadow'd  fields,  and  prospect-bounding  sea ! 

Deep  sighs  my  lonely  heart :  I  drop  the  tear : 

Enchanting  spot  I     0  were  my  Sajra  here  ! 



0  Peace,  that  on  a  lilied  bank  dost  love 
To  rest  thine  head  beneath  an  olive  tree, 

1  would,  that  Iroin  the  pinions  of  thy  dove 
One  quill  withouten  pain  ypluckcd  might  be ! 
For  0  !  I  wish  my  Sara's  frowns  to  flee. 

And  fain  to  her  some  soothing  song  would  write, 

Lest  she  resent  my  rude  disconrtesy, 

AViio  vowed  to  meet  her  ere  the  morning  light, 

But  broke  my  plighted  wroid — ah  I  false  and  recreant  wight! 

Last  night  as  I  my  weary  head  did  pillow 

With  thoughts  of  my  dissevered  Fair  engrost, 

Chill  Fancy  drooped  wreathing  herself  with  willow, 

As  tliough  my  breast  entombed  a  pining  ghost. 

*•  From  some  blest  couch,  young  Rapture's  bridal  boast, 

Rejected  Slumber  I  hither  wing  tliy  way  ; 

But  leave  me  with  the  matin  hour,  at  most ! 

As  night-closed  floweret  to  the  orient  ray. 

My  sad  heart  will  expand,  when  I  the  Maid  survey/ 


But  Love,  who  heard  the  silence  of  my  thought, 
Contrived  a  too  successful  wile,  I  ween  : 
And  whispered  to  himself,  with  malice  fraught — 
"  Too  long  our  Slave  the  Damsel's  smiles  hath  seen  : 
To-morrow  shall  he  ken  her  alterel  mien!" 


He  spake,  and  ambushed  Uy,  lili  on  my  bed 

The  morning  shot  her  dewy  glances  keen, 

When  as  I  'gan  to  lift  my  drowsy  head — 

"  Now,  Bard  1  I'll  work  ihee  woe  !"  tho  laughing  Elfin  said. 

Sleep,  softly-breathing  God  1  his  downy  wing 

Was  fluttering  now,  as  quickly  to  depart ; 

When  twanged  an  arrow  from  Lore's  mystic  string, 

With  pathleag  wound  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 

Was  there  some  magic  in  the  ElJin's  dart? 

Or  (lid  he  strike  my  couch  with  wizard  lance  7 

For  straight  so  fair  a  Form  did  upwards  start 

(No  fairer  decked  the  bowers  of  old  Romance) 

That  Sleep  enamored  grew,  nor  moved  from  his  aweet  trance  I 

My  Sara  came,  with  gentlest  look  divine  ; 

Bright  shone  her  eye,  yet  tender  was  its  beam : 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  her  lip  to  mine  ! 

Whispering  we  went,  and  Love  was  all  our  theme — 

Love  pure  and  spotless,  as  at  first,  I  deem, 

He  sprang  from  Muaven  !     Such  joys  with  Sleep  did  'bide 

That  I  the  living  image  of  my  dream. 

Fondly  forgot.      Too  late  I  woke,  and  aigh'd — 

'•  0  '  how  shall  I  behold  my  Love  at  even-tide  I" 


The  stream  with  languid  murmur  creeps, 

In  Lumin's  flowery  vale  i 
Beneath  the  dew  tho  Lily  weeps 

Slow- waving  to  the  gale. 

"  Cease,  restless  gale !  it  seems  to  say, 

Nor  wake  mo  with  thy  sighing  ! 
The  honors  of  my  vernal  day 

On  rapid  wing  are  flying. 

■■  To-morrow  shall  tho  Traveller  come 

Who  late  beheld  me  blooming : 
His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 

The  dreary  vale  of  Lumin." 



With  eager  gaze  and  wetted  cheek 

My  wonted  haunts  along, 
Thus,  faithful  Maiden !  thou  shalt  seek 

The  Youth  of  simplest  song. 

But  I  along  the  breeze  shall  roll 

The  voice  of  feeble  power ; 
And  dwell,  the  Moon-beam  of  thy  seal. 

In  Slumber's  nightly  hour. 


How  long  will  ye  round  me  be  swelling, 

0  ye  blue-tumbling  waves  of  the  sea  ? 
Not  always  in  caves  was  my  dwelling, 

Nor  beneath  the  cold  blast  of  the  tree. 
Through  the  high-sounding  haUs  of  Cathl6ma 

In  the  steps  of  my  beauty  I  strayed ; 
The  warriors  beheld  Ninath6ma, 

And  they  blessed  the  white-bosomed  Maid ! 

A  Ghost  I  by  my  cavern  it  darted  I 

In  moon-beams  the  Spirit  was  drest — 
For  lovely  appear  the  departed 

When  they  visit  the  dreams  of  my  rest  I 
But  disturbed  by  the  tempest's  commotion 

Fleet  the  shadowy  forms  of  delight — 
Ah  cease,  thou  shrill  blast  of  the  Ocean ! 

To  howl  through  my  cavern  by  night. 


If,  while  my  passion  I  impart. 
You  deem  my  words  untrue, 

0  place  your  hand  upon  my  heart — 
Feel  how  it  throbs  for  you  ! 

Ah  no !  reject  the  thoughtless  claim 

In  pity  to  your  Lover  ! 
That  thrilling  touch  would  aid  the  flame, 

It  wishes  to  discover. 



Ah  !  cease  thy  lean  and  sobs,  iny  little  Lire  ! 

I  did  but  match  away  the  unclasped  knife  : 

Some  safer  toy  will  soon  arrest  thine  eye, 

And  to  quick  laughter  change  this  peevish  cry  1 

Poor  stumbler  on  the  rocky  coast  of  woe, 

Tutored  hy  pain  each  source  of  pain  to  know  I 

Alike  the  foodful  fruit  and  scorching  fire 

Awake  thy  eager  grasp  and  young  desire  ; 

Alike  the  Good,  the  III  ofiend  thy  sight, 

And  rouse  the  stormy  sense  of  shrill  affright  I 

Untaught,  yet  wise!  mid  all  thy  brief  alarms 

Thou  closely  cUngest  to  thy  mother's  arms. 

Nestling  thy  little  face  in  that  fond  breast 

Whose  anxious  heavinga  lull  thee  to  thy  rest! 

Man's  breathing  Miniature  I  thou  mak'st  me  sigh — 

A  Babe  art  thou — and  such  a  Thing  am  I ! 

To  anger  rapid  and  as  soou  appeased, 

For  trifles  mourning  and  by  trifles  pleased 

Break  Friendship's  mirror  with  a  tetchy  blow. 

Yet  snatch  what  coals  of  lire  on  Pleasure's  altar  glow  I 

0  thou  that  reareat  with  celestial  aim 

The  future  Seraph  in  my  mortal  frame. 

Thrice  holy  Faith  !  whatever  thorns  I  meet 

As  on  I  totter  with  unpractised  feet. 

Still  let  me  stretch  my  arms  and  cling  to  thee, 

Heek  nurse  of  souls  through  their  long  infancy  I 

Oood  verse  most  good,  and  bad  verse  then  seems  better 

Eeceired  from  absent  friend  by  way  of  Letter. 

For  what  so  sweet  .am  labored  lays  impurt 

As  ODS  rude  rhyme  warm  from  a  friendly  heart  t — iXon 

Nor  travels  my  meandering  eye 
The  starry  wildemesa  on  high  ; 


Nor  now  with  curious  sight 
I  mark  the  glow-worm,  as  1  pass. 
Move  with  '^greeu  radiance"  through  the  griss. 

An  emerald  of  light. 

0  ever  present  to  my  view  I 
My  waited  spirit  is  with  you, 

And  soothes  your  hoding  fears  : 

1  st^  you  all  oppressed  with  gloom 
Sit  bnely  in  that  cheerless  room — 

Ah  ine  !    You  are  in  tears  ! 

Boloved  Woman  I  did  you  fly 

Chilled  Friendship's  dark  disliking  eye. 

Or  Mirth's  untimely  din  ? 
AVith  cruel  weight  these  trifles  press 
A  temper  sore  with  tenderness, 

AVheii  aches  the  Void  within. 

But  why  with  sable  wand  unblest 
Should  Fancy  rouse  within  my  breast 

Dim-visaped  shapes  of  Dread  ? 
Untenanting  its  beauteous  clay 
My  Sara's  soul  has  winged  its  way, 

And  hovers  round  mv  head  ! 

1  felt  it  prompt  the  tender  dream, 
AVIuMi  slowly  sank  the  day's  last  gleam ; 

You  roused  each  gentler  sense. 
As  si<rhiiig  o'er  the  blossom's  bloom 
Meek  Evening  wakes  its  soil  perfume 

With  viewless  influence. 

And  hark,  mv  Love  !    The  sea-breeze  moana 
Through  yon  reft  house  I    O'er  rolling  stones 

In  bold  ambitious  sweej), 
Tlie  onward-surging  tides  supply 
The  silence  of  the  cloudless  sky 

With  mimic  thunders  deep. 

Dark  reddening  from  the  channelled  Isle* 
(Where  stands  one  solitary  pile 

*  The  Holmes,  io  the  Bristol  Cbannd. 


Unelated  by  tlio  blast) 
The  watchfiie,  like  a  sullea  slar, 
Twinkles  to  many  a  dozing  tar 

RuUe  cradled  oa  the  maat. 

Even  there — beneath  that  light-houBS  lower- 
In  the  tumultuous  evil  hour 

Ere  Peace  with  Sara  came, 
Time  was,  I  should  have  thought  it  eweet 
To  count  theechoings  of  my  feet, 

And  watch  the  etorm-vexed  flame. 

And  there  in  black  Mul-jaundiced  fit 
A  sad  gloom-pampered  Man  to  sit, 

And  listen  to  the  roar  : 
When  mountain  surges  bellowing  deep 
With  an  uncouth  monster  leap 

Plunged  Ebaming  on  the  shore. 

Then  by  the  lightning's  blaze  to  mark 
Some  toiling  tempest-shattered  bark  ; 

Her  vain  distress-guns  hear  ; 
And  when  a  second  sheet  of  light 
Flashed  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  nights 

To  sec  no  vessel  there ! 

But  Fancy  now  more  gaily  sings  ; 
Or  if  awhile  she  droop  her  wings, 

As  sky-larks  'mid  the  corn. 
On  summer  fields  she  grounds  her  breast : 
The  oblivious  poppy  o'er  bcr  neat 

Nods,  till  returning  morn 

O  mark  those  smiling  tear&  that  swell 
The  opened  rose  !    From  heaven  they  fell, 

And  with  the  Bun-beam  blend. 
Blest  visitations  from  above, 
Such  are  the  lender  woes  of  Love 

Fostering  the  heart  they  bend  I 

tVhen  stormy  Uiduight  howling  round 
Beau  on  our  roof  with  clattering  Boun&, 


To  me  your  arms  you'll  stretch  : 
Great  God  !  you'll  say — To  us  so  kind, 

0  shelter  firom  this  loud  bleak  wind 
The  houseless,  friendless  wretch  ! 

The  tears  that  tremble  down  your  cheek« 
Shall  bathe  my  kisses  chaste  and  meek 

In  Pity's  dew  divine  ; 
And  from  your  heart  the  sighs  that  steal 
Shall  make  your  rising  bosom  feel 

The  answering  swell  of  mine ! 

How  ody  my  Love !  with  shapings  sweet 

1  paint  the  moment  we  shall  meet ! 

With  eager  speed  I  dart — 
I  seize  you  in  the  vacant  air, 
And  fancy,  with  a  husband's  care 

I  press  you  to  my  heart ! 

'Tis  said,  in  Summer's  evening  hour 
Flashes  the  golden-colored  flower 

A  fair  electric  flame  : 
And  so  shall  flash  my  love-charged  eye 
Vihen  all  the  heart's  big  ecstasy 

Shoots  rapid  through  the  frame  ! 



AwAT,  those  cloudy  looks,  that  laboring  sigh, 
The  peevish  oOspring  of  a  sickly  hour ! 
Nor  meanly  thus  complain  of  Fortune's  power. 
When  the  blind  gamester  throws  a  luckless  die. 

Yon  setting  sun  flashes  a  mournful  gleam 
Behind  those  broken  clouds,  his  stormy  train : 
To-morrow  shall  the  many-colored  main 
In  brightness  roll  beneath  his  orient  beam  ! 

Wild,  as  the  autumnal  gust,  the  hand  of  Time 
Flies  o'er  his  mystic  lyre  :  in  shadowy  dance 


The  alternate  gmupe  of  Joy  and  Grief  advance 
Beqxmsive  to  his  varying  itrains  Bublime  I 

Bears  on  its  'wing  each  hour  a  load  of  Fate  ; 

The  swain,  who,  lulled  by  Seine's  mild  murmurs,  led 

His  weary  oxen  to  their  nightly  shed. 

To-day  may  rule  a  tempest-troubled  State. 

Not  shall  not  Fortune  with  a  vengeful  smile 
Survey  the  s&nguinary  despot's  might. 
And  haply  hurl  the  pageant  from  his  height 
Unwept  to  wander  in  some  savage  isle. 

There  shiv'ring  sad  beneath  the  tempest's  frown 
Round  his  tired  limbs  to  wrap  the  purple  vest  ; 
And  mixed  with  nails  and  beads,  an  equal  jest ! 
Barter  for  food  the  jewels  of  his  erowa. 


This  is  the  time,  whan  most  divine  to  hear, 

The  voice  of  adoration  rouses  me, 

As  with  a  Cherub's  trump  :  and  high  upborne, 

Yea,  mingling  «-ith  the  choir,  I  seem  to  view 

Th»  vision  of  the  heavenly  multitude, 

Who  hymned  the  song  of  peace  o'er  Bethlehem's  fields . 

Tet  thou  more  bright  than  all  the  angel  blaze. 

That  harbingered  thy  birth,  Thou,  Man  of  Woes  ! 

Despised  Galilean  !     For  the  great 

Invisible  (by  symbols  only  seen) 

With  a  pepuliar  and  surpassing  light 

Shines  from  the  visage  of  the  oppressed  good  man. 

When  heedless  of  himself  the  scourged  Saint 

Honma  for  the  oppressor.     Fair  the  vernal  mead. 

Fair  the  high  grove,  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  stars  ; 

True  impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire  ! 

Tet  nor  high  grove,  nor  many-colored  mead, 

Nor  the  green  Ocean  with  his  thousand  islea. 

Nor  tke  starred  azure,  nor  the  sovraji  sun, 

72      •  JUVENILE  POEHS. 

E'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 

Imaged  the  supreme  heauty  uncreate, 

As  thou,  meek  Saviour !  at  the  fearful  hour 

Whea  thy  iusulted  anguish  winged  the  prayer 

Harped  by  Archangels,  when  they  sing  of  mercy  ! 

Which  when  the  Almighty  heard  from  forth  his  throne 

Diviner  light  filled  Heaven  with  ecstasy  ! 

Heaven's  hymnings  paused  :  and  Hell  her  yawning  montk 

Closed  a  brief  moment. 

Lovely  was  the  death 
Of  Him  whose  life  was  Love  I     Holy  with  power 
He  on  the  thought- benighted  Skeptic  beamed 
Manifest  Godhead,  melting  into  day 
What  floating  mists  of  dark  idolatry 
Broke  and  misshaped  the  omnipresent  Siro  : 
And  first  by  Fear  uncharmed  the  drowsed  Soul. 
Till  of  its  nobler  nature  it  *gan  feel 
Dim  recollections  ;  and  thence  soared  to  Hope, 
Strong  to  believe  whatever  of  mystic  good 
The  Eternal  dooms  for  his  immortal  sons. 
From  HojKJ  and  firmer  Faith  to  perfect  Love 
Attracted  and  absorbed  ;  and  centered  there 
God  only  to  behold,  and  know,  and  feel, 
Till  bv  exclusive  consciousness  of  God 
All  self-annihilated  it  shall  make 
God  its  identity  ;  God  all  in  all ! 
We  and  our  Father  one  I     . 

And  blest  are  they, 
'V\'lio  in  this  fleshly  World,  the  elect  of  Heaven, 
Their  strong  eye  darting  through  the  deeds  of  men, 
Adore  with  steadfast  unpresuming  gaze 
Him  Nature's  essence,  mind,  and  energy  I 
And  gazing,  trembling,  patiently  ascend 
Treading  beneath  their  feet  all  visible  things 
As  steps,  that  upward  to  their  Father's  throne 
Lead  gradual— else  nor  glorified  nor  loved. 
They  nor  contempt  embosom  nor  revenge  : 
For  they  dare  know  of  what  may  seem  deform 
The  Supreme  Fair  sole  operant  :  in  whose  sight 


All  things  are  pure,  his  strong  conlrolling  Love 
Alike  fronk  all  educing  perfect  good. 
Their's  loo  celestial  courage,  inly  armed — 
Dwarfing  Earth's  giant  brood,  what  limo  they  muse 
On  their  great  Father,  great  beyond  compute  I 
And  marching  ouwards  view  high  o'er  thuir  huads 
His  waving  faaiiucrs  of  Unuiipoleiicc. 

Who  the  Crealor  love,  crcaleil  might 

Dread  not :  within  their  tents  nu  terrora  walk. 

For  they  are  holy  things  before  the  Lord 

Aye  unprofaiicd,  though  Earth  should  le.ngue  with  H< 

God's  altar  grasping  with  an  eagi^i  hand 

Fear,  the  wild-visaj^ed,  pale,  eye-slarting  wretch, 

Sure-refuged  hcais  his  hot  pursuing  liendtt 

Yell  at  vain  diiilance.     Soon  relretlied  from  Heaven 

He  calms  the  throh  and  tempest  of  his  heart. 

His  countenance  settles  ;  a  sofl  solemn  blisa 

Swims  in  biB  eye — his  swimming  eye  upraised  ; 

And  Faith's  whole  armor  glitters  on  his  limbs  ! 

And  thus  iransSgured  with  a  dreadless  awe, 

A  solemn  hush  of  soul,  meek  he  beholds 

All  things  of  terrible  seeming  :  yea,  unmoved 

Views  e'en  the  immitigable  mintatera 

That  shower  down  vengeance  on  these  latter  dayt. 

For  kindling  with  intenser  Deity 

From  the  celestial  Mercy-seat  they  come, 

And  at  the  renovating  wells  of  Love    . 

Have  filled  their  vials  with  salutary  wrath, 

To  sickly  Nature  more  medicinal 

Than  what  soft  balm  the  weeping  good  man  ponn 

Into  the  lone  despoiled  traveller's  wounds ! 

Thus  from  the  Elect,  regenerate  through  failh. 
Pass  the  dark  Passions  and  what  thirsty  Cares 
Drink  up  the  Spirit,  and  the  dim  regards 
Self-centre.     Lo  they  vanish  1  or  acquire 
Kew  names,  new  features — by  supernal  grace 
Enrobed  with  Light,  and  naturalized  in  Heaven 
'  when  a  shepherd  on  a  vernal  morn 


Through  some  thick  fog  creeps  timorous  with  slow  totit^ 

Darkling  he  fixes  on  the  immediate  road 

His  downward  eye  :  all  else  of  fairest  kind 

Hid  or  deformed.     But  io !  the  bursting  Sun ! 

Touched  by  the  enchantment  of  that  sudden  beam 

Straight  the  black  vapor  melteth,  and  in  globes 

Of  dewy  glitter  gems  each  plant  and  tree  ; 

On  every  leaf,  on  every  blade  it  hangs ! 

Dance  glad  the  new-born  intermingling  rays. 

And  wide  around  the  landscape  streams  with  gloij  I 

There  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind, 

Omnific.     His  most  holy  name  is  Love. 

Truth  of  subliming  import !  with  the  which 

Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul. 

He  from  his  small  particular  orbit  flies 

With  blest  outstarting !     From  Himself  he  fliet 

Stands  in  the  sun,  aud  with  no  partial  gaze 

Views  all  creation  ;  aud  he  loves  it  all, 

And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good ! 

This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  most  High  I 

Cherubs  aud  rapture-trembling  Seraphim 

Can  press  no  nearer  to  the  Almighty's  Throne. 

But  that  we  roam  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 

Unfeeling  of  our  universal  Sire, 

And  that  in  his  vast  family  no  Cain 

Injures  uninjured  (in  her  best-aimed  blow 

Victorious  murder  a  blind  suicide) 

Haply  for  this  some  younger  Angel  now 

Looks  down  on  human  nature  :  and,  behold  ! 

A  sea  of  blood  bestrewed  with  wrecks,  where  mad 

Embattling  interests  on  each  other  rush 

With  unhelmed  rage ! 

*Tis  the  sublime  of  man. 
Our  noontide  majesty,  to  know  ourselves 
Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wondrous  whole  I 
This  fraternizes  man,  this  constitutes 
3ur  charities  and  bearings.     But  *tis  God 
Diffused  through  all.  that  doth  make  all  one  whole : 


This  the  wont  superatition,  him  except 
Alight  to  desire,  Supreme  Bealily  ! 
The  plenitude  anil  permaneace  of  bliss  ! 

0  Fiends  of  Superatition  !  not  that  oft 

The  erring  prieat  hath  stained  with  brother's  blood 
Your  grisly  idols,  not  tor  this  may  wrath 
Thunder  against  you  from  the  Holy  One  ! 
But  o'er  some  plain  that  steamelh  to  the  sun. 
Peopled  with  death  ;  or  where  more  hideous  Trado 
Loud-langhing  packs  bis  bales  of  human  anguish  ; 

1  will  raise  up  a  mourning,  0  yo  Fiends  1 

And  curso  your  spells,  that  film  the  eye  of  Faith, 

Kiding  the  present  Uod  !  whose  presence  lost, 

The  moral  world's  cohesion,  we  become 

An  anarchy  of  Spirits  !  Toy- bewitched, 

Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul, 

No  common  centre  Man,  no  common  sire 

Knoweth  I     A  sordid  solitary  thing, 

Mid  countless  brethren  with  a  lonely  heart 

Through  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  savage  roams 

Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  eelf  the  whole  ; 

When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 

The  whole  one  self  I  self,  that  no  alien  knows ! 

Self,  far  dilTused  as  Fancy's  wing  can  travel  ! 

Self,  spreading  still!   Oblivious  of  its  own. 

Yet  all  of  all  possessing  !     This  is  Faith  ! 

This  the  Messiah's  destined  victory  ! 

But  first  oBcnccs  needs  must  come  !  Even  now* 

(Black  Hell  laughs  horrible — to  hear  the  scofl!) 

■  January  Slat  11M,  in  tlie  debate  on  tbe  oddresa  t«  his  Majeatj,  on  th« 
■p«ecb  from  the  Throne,  tlie  Eiirl  of  Uulldrurd  moved  au  lUDeiiiJineDt  lo  the 
tiUoving  eS»A : — "That  the  House  hoped  hi«  Majesty  would  seiie  tbe  i^nrlint 
opportimitj  to  TOOclude  *  peace  with  FrBuee,"  do.  This  motion  wm  op- 
posed by  tbcDulte  of  Portkud,  «lio"«H]Htdered  tbe  war  to  be  merely  groun' 
ded  on  on*  prioeiple — the  preservation  of  the  Chtittinn  Religion."  Uay 
SOtb,  1794,  the  Duke  of  Bedford  moved  a  number  of  rcoulutiaDS,  vith  a 
view  to  the  establiahment  of  a  peace  with  France.  He  was  opposed  (ammii; 
uthen)  by  Lord  Abingdon  in  these  reiiuirkubia  vurds:  "'llie  best  rwul 
to  Peace,  my  Lords,  is  War  I  iin<l  War  carried  on  lu  the  name  mnnuer  iii 
vhiA  we  are  taoght  to  worship  our  Creator,  namely,  with  nil  uur  ma\\«, 
•i4  with  all  our  miada,  sod  with  all  our  hearts,  and  wiUi  all  <iuv  »t,(«ti£V\C 


And  dashed  the  beauteous  tenors  on  the  earth 
Smiling  majestic.     Snch  a  phalanx  ne'er 
Measured  firm  paces  to  the  calming  sound 
Of  Spartan  Rute  !     These  ou  the  fated  day, 
When,  stung  to  rage  by  pity,  eloquent  men 
-     Have  roused  with  pealing  voice  the  unnumbered  tribes 
That  toil  and  groan  and  bleed,  hungry  and  blind, — 
These  hushed  awhile  with  patient  eye  serene 
Shall  watch  the  mad  careering  of  the  storm  ; 
Then  o'er  the  wild  and  wavy  chaos  rush 
And  tame  the  outrageous  mass,  with  plastic  might 
Moulding  confusion  to  such  perfect  forms. 
As  erst  were  wont, — bright  visions  of  the  day ! — 
To  float  before  them,  when,  the  summer  noon, 
Beneath  some  areh'd  romantic  rock  reclined 
They  felt  the  sea  breeze  lift  their  youthful  locks ; 
Or  in  the  month  of  blossoms,  at  mild  eve. 
Wandering  with  desultory  feet  inhaled 
The  waited  perfumes,  and  the  flocks  and  woods 
And  many-tinted  streams  and  setting  sun 
With  ail  his  gorgeous  company  of  clouds 
Ecstatic  gazed  1  then  homeward  as  they  strayed 
Cast  the  sad  eve  to  earth,  and  inlv  mused 
Whv  there  was  misery  in  a  world  so  fair. 
Ah  I  far  removed  from  all  that  glads  the  sense. 
From  all  that  softens  or  ennobles  Man, 
The  wretched  Many  !     Bent  beneath  their  loads 
They  gape  at  pageant  Power,  nor  recognize 
Their  cots'  transmuted  plunder  I     From  the  tree 
Of  Knowledge,  ere  the  vernal  sap  had  risen 
Rudely  disbranched  I     Blest  Society  I 
Fitliest  depictured  by  some  sun-st*orched  waste. 
Where  oil  majestic  through  the  tainted  noon 
The  Simoom  sails,  before  whose  purple  pomp 
Who  falls  not  jirostrate  dies  I     And  where  by  night, 
Fast  by  each  precious  fountain  on  green  herbs 
The  lion  couches  ;  or  hyn*na  dips 
Deep  in  the  lucid  8tn\im  his  bliXHly  jaws  : 
Or  serpent  plants  his  vast  moon-glittering  bulk. 


Caught  in  whose  mnnatrous  twine  Behemoth*  yells, 
His  bones  loud-crashing ! 

0  yo  numberless, 
Whom  foul  oppressJDii'H  ruSian  gluttony 
Drives  from  life's  plenteous  teast !     0  thou  poor  wretch 
Who  nursed  in  darkness  and  made  wild  by  want, 
Itoamcst  for  prey,  yea  thy  unnatural  hand 
Dost  lilt  to  deeds  of  blood !     0  pale-eyed  form, 
The  victim  of  seduction,  doomed  to  know 
Polluted  nights  and  days  of  blasphemy  ; 
Who  in  loathed  orgies  with  lewd  waseailers 
Must  gaily  laugh,  while  thy  remembered  home 
(rnaws  liko  a  viper  at  thy  secret  heart  ! 
0  aged  women  1  ye  who  weekly  catch 
The  morsel  tossed  by  law-forced  charity, 
And  die  so  slowly,  that  none  call  it  murder  '. 
0  loathly  suppliants  !  ye,  that  unreceived 
Totter  heart-broken  from  the  closing  gates 
Of  the  full  Lazar-house  :  or,  gazing,  »tand 
Sick  with  despair  !     0  ye  to  glory's  iicld 
Forced  or  ensnared,  who,  as  ye  gasp  in  death. 
Bleed  with  new  wounds  beneath  the  vulture's  beak  ! 
0  thou  poor  widow,  who  in  dreams  dost  view 
Thy  husband's  mangled  corse,  and  from  short  doze 
Start'st  with  a  shriek  ;  or  in  thy  half-thatched  cot 
Waked  by  the  wintry  night-storm,  wet  and  cold 
Oow'rst  o'er  thy  screaming  baby  !     Rest  awhile 
Children  of  wretchedness  !     More  groans  must  rise, 
Uore  blood  must  stream,  or  ere  your  wrongs  be  full. 
Yet  is  the  day  of  retribution  nigh  : 
The  Lamb  of  God  hath  opened  the  fifth  seal : 
And  upward  rush  on  swiftest  wing  of  firs 
The  innumerable  multitude  of  Wrongs 
By  man  on  man  inflicted  !     llest  awhile. 
Children  of  wretchedni'ss  1     The  hour  is  nigh  ; 
And  lo  !  the  great,  the  rich,  the  mighty  Men, 

*  Bebemodi,  in  Hcbfflw,  aigniSes  wild  beasU  in  generuL  Some  belierc 
it  is  tba  elcjrikaat,  some  the  hippopatunug ;  >ome  affirm  ic  U  the  m\<iY>>A\ 
IVMtieUlj  it  daMgoates  any  hirgt  quadruped 

so  JUVfiUNlLK  F0EH8. 

The  Kings  and  the  chief  Captains  of  the  Worid, 
With  all  that  fixed  on  high  like  stars  of  Heaveu 
Shot  baleful  iiiiluence,  shall  be  cast  to  earth, 
Vile  and  down-trodden,  as  the  untimely  fruit 
Shook  from  the  fig-tree  by  a  sudden  storm. 
Even  now  the  storm  begins  :*  each  gentle  name. 
Faith  and  meek  Piety,  with  fearful  joy 
Tremble  far-off — for  lo  I  the  giant  Frenzy 
Uprooting  empires  with  his  whirlwind  arm 
Mc»ckelh  high  Heaven  ;  burst  hideous  from  the  oell 
Where  the  old  Hag,  unconquerable,  huge, 
Creation's  eyeless  drudge,  black  ruin,  sits 
Nursing  the  impatient  earthquake. 

0  return ! 
Pure  Faith  I  meek  Piety  I     The  abhorred  Form 
Whose  scarlet  robe  was  stiff  with  earthly  pomp. 
Who  drank  iniquity  in  cups  of  gold, 
Whose  names  were  many  and  all  blasphemous. 
Hath  met  llie  horrible  judgment  I     Whence  that  cry  ? 
The  mighty  army  of  foul  Spirits  shrieked 
Disherited  of  earth  !     For  she  hath  fallen 
On  whose  blark  front  was  written  Mystery ; 
She  that  reeled  heavily,  whoso  wine  was  blood  ; 
She  that  worked  whoredom  with  the  Demon  Power, 
And  from  the  dark  embrace  all  evil  things 
Brought  forth  and  nurtured  :  mitred  atheism  ! 
And  patient  Folly  who  on  bended  knee 
Gives  back  the  steel  that  stabbed  him  ;  and  pale  Fear 
Haunted  by  ghastlier  shapings  than  surround 
Moon-blasted  Madness  when  he  yells  at  midnight  I 
Return  pure  Faith  I  return  meek  Piety ! 
The  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  yours  :  each  heart 
Self-governed,  the  vast  family  of  Love 
Haised  from  the  common  earth  by  common  toil 
Enjoy  the  equal  produce.     Such  delights 
As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitants! 
When  in  som?  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 
The  massy  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 

*  Alluding  to  the  French  Revolution. 


Wide  open,  and  forth  come  in  frogmenta  wild 
Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  metodics, 
And  odors  snatched  from  beds  of  amaranth, 
And  they,  that  from  the  crystal  rivei  of  lite 
Spring  up  on  freshened  ving,  ambrosial  gales  ! 
The  favored  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 
Perceives  them,  and  his  silent  spirit  drinks 
Strange  bliss  which  he  shall  recognize  in  heaver. 
And  such  delights,  such  strange  beatitudes 
Seize  on  my  young  anticipating  heart 
When  that  blest  future  rushes  on  my  view ! 
For  in  his  own  and  in  liia  Father's  might 
The  Saviour  comes  !     While  as  the  Thousand  Year* 
Lead  up  their  mystic  dance,  the  Desert  shouts  ! 
Old  Oceau  claps  his  hands  !     The  mighty  Dead 
Rise  to  new  life,  whoe'er  from  earliest  lime 
With  conscious  zeal  had  urged  Love's  wondrous  plan 
Coadjutors  of  God.     To  Milton's  trump 
The  high  groves  of  the  renovated  Earth 
Unbosom  their  glad  echoes  ;  inly  hushed. 
Adoring  Xewtou  his  serener  eye 
Raises  to  heaven  :  and  ho  of  mortal  kind 
Wisest,  he*  first  who  marked  the  ideal  tribes 
Up  the  fine  fibres  through  the  sentient  brain. 
Iio !  Priestley  there,  patriot,  and  saint,  and  sags 
Him,  full  of  years,  from  his  loved  native  land 
Statesmen  blood-stained  and  pricets  idolatrous 
By  dark  lies  maddening  the  blind  multitude 
Tttoro  with  vain  hate.     Calm,  pitying  he  retired. 
And  mused  expectant  on  these  promised  years. 
0  Years !  the  blest  pre'Cminencc  of  Saints  ! 
Ye  sweep  athwart  my  gaze,  so  heavenly  bright, 
The  wings  that  veil  the  adoring  Seraphs'  eyes, 
What  time  they  bend  before  the  Jasper  Tbronet 
Reflect  no  lovelier  hues  I     Yet  ye  depart, 
And  all  beyond  is  darkness  !     Heights  most  strange, 
•  David  Hartley. 

f  It«v.  dup  iv.  T.  2  snd  S : — And  immediately  T  was  in  Uie  Spirit :  and 
b^old.  a  Throne  was  set  in  HesveD  and  one  tat  □□  the  TUrnnc  &tv&^y* 
tt*t  *«t  wia  to  look  tpon  like  a  jmper  «i(I  a  aiirdiae  stone,  &c 

Whence  Fancy  fkWsy  flattering  her  idle  wing. 
For  who  of  \roman  horn  may  paint  the  hour. 
When  seized  in  his  mid  course,  the  San  shall  wane 
Making  noon  ghastly  !     Who  of  woman  horn 
May  image  in  the  workings  of  his  thonght. 
How  the  black-visaged,  red-eyed  Fiend  outstretched* 
Beneath  the  unsteady  feet  of  Nature  groans. 
In  feverous  slumbers — destined  then  to  wake. 
When  fiery  whirlwinds  thunder  his  dread  name 
And  Aiiofels  shout,  Destruction  !     How  his  arm 
The  last  great  Spirit  lifting  high  in  air 
Shall  swear  hy  Him,  the  cTer-living  One, 
Time  is  no  more  ! 

Believe  thou,  0  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  Truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave. 
Shapes  of  a  dream  !     The  veiling  clouds  retire, 
And  lo  I  the  Throne  of  the  redeeming  God 
Forth  flashing  unimaginable  day 
Wraps  in  one  blaze  earth,  heaven,  and  deepest  hell. 

Contemplant  Spirits  I  ye  that  hover  o'er 

With  iintircd  gaze  the  immeasurable  fount 

Ebullient  with  creative  Deity  ! 

And  ye  of  plastic  power,  that  interfused 

Roil  through  the  grosser  and  material  mass 

In  organizing  surge  I     Holies  of  God  I 

(And  what  if  Monads  of  the  infinite  mind) 

1  haply  journeying  my  immortal  course 

Shall  sometime  join  your  mystic  choir.     Till  then 

I  discipline  my  young  and  novice  thought 

In  ministeries  of  heart-stirring  song, 

And  aye  on  Meditation's  heaven-ward  wing 

Soaring  aloll  I  breathe  the  empyreal  air 

Of  Love,  omnific,  omnipresent  Love, 

Whoso  day-spring  rises  glorious  in  my  soul 

As  the  great  Sun,  when  he  his  influence 

Sheds  on  the  frost-bound  waters — The  glad  stream 

Flows  to  the  ray  and  warbles  as  it  flows. 

*  The  fioal  destruction  impertooated. 




A.U3P1CIOUS  Reverence  I     Hush  all  meaner  Bong, 

Bre  w«  the  deep  preluding  strain  have  poured 

To  the  great  Father,  only  Rightlul  King, 

Eternal  Father  !   King  Oinnipolcnt  I 

To  the  Will  Abeolute,  the  One,  the  Good ! 

The  I  AM.  the  Word,  the  Life,  the  Living  God  ! 

Such  symphony  requires  best  instrument. 
Seize,  then,  my  soul  1   from  Freedom's  trophied  dome 
The  harp  which  hangeth  high  between  the  phielda 
Of  Brutus  and  Leonidas  !     With  that 
Kirong  music,  that  soliciting  spell,  force  back 
Man's  free  and  stirring  spirit  that  lies  entranced. 

For  what  is  freedom,  but  the  unfettered  use 
Of  all  the  powers  which  God  for  use  had  given  ? 
But  chiefly  thia,  him  first,  him  last  to  view 
Tiirough  meaner  powers  and  secondary  things 
EfTulgeiit,  as  through  clouds  that  veil  his  blaze. 
For  all  that  meets  the  bodily  sense  I  deem 
Symbolical,  one  mighty  alphabet 
For  infant  minds ;  and  wo  in  this  low  world 
Placed  with  our  backs  to  bright  reality, 
That  we  may  learn  will)  young  tinwounded  ken 
The  substance  from  its  shadow.     Infinite  iiove. 
Whose  Intence  is  the  plenitude  of  all. 
Thou  with  retracted  beams,  and  self-eclip«e 
Veiling,  revealeat  thine  eternal  Sun. 

Bnt  some  there  are  who  deem  themselves  most  ftM 
When  they  within  this  gross  and  visible  sphere 
Chain  down  the  winged  thought,  scofling  ascent. 
Proud  in  their  meanness  :  and  themselves  they  cheat 
With  noisy  emptiness  of  learned  phrase. 
Their  subtle  fluids,  impacts,  essenoes, 
Self-working  tools,  uncaused  effects,  and  all 
TboM  blind  omniscienis,  those  almighty  slaves, 
Untonaating  cmtion  of  its  God. 


But  properties  are  God :  the  naked  mass 
(If  mass  there  be,  fantastic  guess  or  ghost) 
Acts  only  by  its  inactivity. 
Here  we  pause  humbly.     Others  boldlier  think 
That  as  one  body  seems  the  aggregate 
Of  atoms  numberless,  each  organized ; 
So  by  a  strange  and  dim  similitude 
Infinite  myriads  of  self-conscious  minds 
Are  one  all-conscious  Spirit,  which  informs 
With  absolute  ubiquity  of  thought 
(His  one  eternal  self-affirming  act !) 
AH  his  involved  Monads,  that  yet  seem 
With  various  province  and  apt  agency 
Each  to  pursue  its  own  self-centring  end. 
Some  nurse  the  infant  diamond  in  the  mine ; 
Some  roll  the  genial  juices  through  the  oak ; 
Some  drive  the  mutinous  clouds  to  clash  in  air, 
And  rushing  on  the  storm  with  whirlwind  speed, 
Yoke  the  red  lightnings  to  their  volleying  car. 
Thus  these  pursue  their  never-var}'ing  course. 
No  eddy  in  their  stream.     Others,  more  wild, 
With  complex  interests  weaving  human  fates, 
Duteous  or  proud,  alike  obedient  all. 
Evolve  the  process  of  eternal  good. 

And  what  if  some  rebellious  o*er  dark  realms 
Arrogate  power  ?  yet  these  train  up  to  God, 
And  on  the  rude  eye,  unconfirmed  for  day, 
Flash  meteor-lights  better  than  total  gloom. 
As  ere  from  Lieule-Oaive's  vapory  head 
The  Laplander  beholds  the  far-olVsun 
Dart  his  slant  beam  on  uuobeying  snows, 
VMiile  yet  the  stem  and  solitary  night 
Brooks  no  alternate  sway,  the  Boreal  Morn 
With  mimic  lustre  substitutes  its  gleam. 
Guiding  his  course  or  by  Nicmi  lake 
Or  Balda  Zhiok,*  or  the  mossy  stone 
Of  Solfar-kap|K»r,t  while  the  snowy  blast 

*  Balda  Zhiok ;  i .  t.  nMO*  altitmlinis,  tho  hif*he»t  mountain  in  Lapland, 
f  S(«lfar  Kapixr ;  capitiuni  SoUar,  hie  locua  oniniuDi  quotquol  v«t«rura 


Drills  arrowy  by,  or  eddies  round  hiB  slsdge. 

Making  the  poor  babe  at  its  mother's  back* 

Scream  in  its  scanty  cradle  :  he  the  while 

Wins  gentlo  soluce  as  with  upward  eye 

He  marks  the  streamy  banners  of  the  North, 

Thinking  himself  those  happy  Bpirilx  shall  joia 

Who  there  in  floatinfr  robes  of  roty  light 

Dance  sportively.     For  Fancy  is  the  power 

That  first  unscnsualizcs  the  dark  mind. 

Giving  it  new  delights  ;  and  bids  It  swell 

With  wild  activity  ;  and  peopling  air, 

By  obscure  feare  of  beings  invisible, 

Emancipates  it  from  the  grosser  thrall 

Of  the  present  impulse,  teaching  s«lf-controt, 

Till  Superstition  with  unconscious  hand 

Seat  Heasoii  on  her  throne.      Wherefore  not  vain, 

Nor  yet  without  permitted  power  impressed, 

1  deem  those  l^ends  terrible,  with  which 

The  polar  ancient  thrills  his  uncouth  throng : 

Whether  of  pitying  Spirits  that  make  their  moan 

O'er  slaughtered  inianls,  or  that  giant  bird 

Vuokho,  of  whose  rushing  wings  the  noise 

Is  tempest,  when  the  unuttorablet  shape 

Speeds  from  the  mother  of  Death,  and  utters  onea 

That  shriek,  which  never  murderer  heard,  and  lived. 

I^pponum  ■uperalitio  aacriSviia  ri^liginsuquf  ciiltui  dedicavit,  celcbrstUii 
nms  erst,  in  parte  liuiu  Buatrulia  filiw  geiuimillLarii  spatio  a  mnri  distaiia 
IpM  liiciu,  quem  curiuBitatis  gmtia  aliquniidii  me  inviiiue  memiui.  duabui 
prealtis  lapidibiu,  aibi  invicem  •ippiwicie.  quuruin  alter  niusco  cireuniilalui 
erat,  cuostkhat. —  Leeiniut  de  Lappouibun, 

*  T)ie  Lsplnod  Tinmen  carry  their  infaDts  at  their  back  in  a  piece  i>f 
exokvated  wocxl,  vhich  serves  them  for  a  cradle.  Opposite  to  the  indiut'i 
mouth  there  is  a  hole  for  it  to  breathe  through. — Mirandum  prorsus  est  et 
vii  credibile  Dili  cuI  vidiase  iwnti};iC.  Lappoaes  hyeme  iter  (kcietites  per 
riiitut  moutes,  perqiie  hurrida  et  iovin  tcaqua,  eo  presertini  tempore  quo 
irnaia  perpetuis  oivilius  ubtecta  sunt  et  uives  vcatts  agitantur  et  in  gyrm 
•trunlur,  viatn  ad  d(«tinnta  Inca  absque  errors  invenire  posac,  lactnDtem 
Holeni  iuEsntem  t\  quem  habeat,  ipaa  mater  io  dorso  bajulat,  in  excavato 
ligiio  (Oieed'k  ipai  Toouit)  qund  pro  cuuis  utuntur :  in  hoc  inbas  panuis  at 
pellibos  ooovolutus  colligatua  jaceL  -—Leetniui  dt  Zapponihvi, 

t  Jaibma  Aibmo. 


Or  if  the  Greenland  Wizard  in  Strang  trance 
Pierces  the  untravelled  realms  of  Ocean's  bed 
Over  the  abvsin.  even  to  that  uttermost  cave 


By  mis-shaped  prodiffies  beleaguered,  such 

As  earth  ue*er  bred,  nor  air,  nor  the  upper  sea : 

AViiere  dwells  the  Fur)'  Form,  whose  unheard  name 

With  eager  eye,  pale  cheek,  suspended  breath, 

And  lips  half-opening  vrith  the  dread  of  sound. 

Unsleeping  Silence  guards,  worn  out  with  fear 

Lest  haply  'scaping  on  some  treacherous  blast 

The  fateful  word  let  slip  the  elements 

And  frenz\'  Nature.     Yet  the  wizard  her, 

Armed  with  Torngarsuck's*  power,  the  Spirit  of  Grood, 

Forces  to  unchain  the  foodfui  progeny 

Of  the  Ocean  stream  ; — thence  thro'  the  realm  of  Soul^ 

Where  live  the  Innocent,  as  far  from  cares 

As  from  the  storms  and  overwhelming  waves 

That  tumble  on  the  surface  of  the  Deep, 

Jteluriis  with  far-heard  pant,  hotly  pursued 

By  the  fierce  Warders  of  the  Sea,  once  more. 

Ere  by  the  frost  foreclosed,  to  repossess 

His  fleshly  mansion,  that  had  staid  the  while 

In  the  dark  tent  within  a  cow'ring  group 

Untenanted. — Wild  phantasies  !  yet  wise. 

On  the  victorious  goodness  of  high  God 

Teaching  reliance,  and  medicinal  hope. 

Till  from  Bethabra  northward,  heavenly  Truth 

With  gradual  steps,  winning  her  difficult  way. 

Transfer  their  rude  Faith  perfected  and  pure. 

If  there  be  beings  of  higher  class  than  Man, 
I  deem  no  nobler  province  they  possess. 
Than  by  disposal  of  apt  circumstance 

♦  Tbey  cull  the  OiKul  Spirit  Turnj^nrsuck.  The  other  great  but  malij? 
Dont  spirit  is  a  uiuiicleHH  Fcinule ;  nhe  dwelU  under  the  Ben  in  a  great  houtfe. 
where  she  enn  detain  in  captivity  nil  the  nniinaln  of  tlie  ocean  by  her  magic 
power.  When  n  dearth  Im*&i11b  the  Greenlanders,  nn  Anj^ekok  or  magieiaq 
nniBt  undertake  a  journey  tliither.  He  ])a8Mca  throu^dt  the  kingdom  of 
louU,  over  a  horrible  abyM  into  the  Puhicc  of  tliis  phantom,  and  by  hia 
enchantments  causes  the  captive  creatures  to  ascend  directly  to  the  su?  &oe 
of  the  ocean. — See  Crantz'i  Hittory  of  Oretnland^  vol.  i.  206. 


Ti  rear  up  kingdoms:  and  the  doeds  tliey  prompt, 
r)isli[ipui»hing  Irom  mortal  agency. 
They  choose  their  human  ministers  from  such  stales 
As  Btill  the  Epic  Boug  half  fears  to  name, 
Bepelled  from  all  the  minetreleies  that  strike 
The  palace-roof  and  soothe  the  monarch's  pride. 

And  such,  perhaps,  tlie  Spirit,  who  (if  words 
WilnesBed  by  answering  deeds  may  claim  our  faith) 
HclU  commune  with  that  warrior-maid  of  Franco 
"VVlio  scourged  the  Invader.     From  her  infant  days, 
With  Wisdom,  mother  of  retired  thoughts. 
Her  soul  had  dwelt ;  and  she  was  quick  to  mark 
The  good  and  evil  thing,  in  human  lore 
Undisciplined.     For  lowly  was  her  birth, 
And  Heaven  had  doomed  her  early  years  to  toil 
That  pure  from  tyranny's  least  deed,  herself 
Uufear'd  by  fellow-natures,  she  might  wait 
On  the  poor  laboring  man  with  kiudly  looks, 
And  minister  refreshment  to  the  tired 
Way-wanderer,  when  along  the  rough  hewn  bench 
The  sweltry  man  had  stretched  him,  and  aloft 
Vacantly  watched  the  rudely  pictured  board 
Which  on  the  mulberry-bough  with  welcome  creak 
Swung  to  the  pleasant  breeze.     Here,  too.  the  Maid 
Learnt  more  than  schools  could  teach  :  Man's  shifling  mir 
His  vices  and  his  sorrows  !     And  full  oft 
At  tales  of  cruel  wrong  and  strange  distress. 
Had  wppt  and  shivered.     To  the  tottering  eld 
Klitl  as  a  daughter  would  she  run  :  she  placed 
His  cold  limbs  at  the  snnny  door,  and  loved 
To  hear  him  story,  in  hi«  garrulous  sort, 
Of  his  eventliil  years,  all  come  and  gone. 

•Bo  twenty  seasons  past.     The  Virgin's  form,    - 
Active  and  tall,  ror  sloth  nor  luxury 
Had  shrunk  or  paled.     Her  front  sublime  and  broad. 
Her  Sexile  eye- brows  wildly  haired  and  low, 
And  her  full  eye,  now  bright,  now  unillumed, 
Bpkke  more  than  Woman's  thought ;  and  all  \ier  fa«o 


Was  moulded  to  such  features  as  declared 
That  pity  there  had  oft  and  strongly  worked. 
And  sometimes  indignation.     Bold  her  mien. 
And  like  a  haughty  huntress  of  the  woods 
She  moved  :  yet  sure  she  was  a  gentle  maid ! 
And  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  so  brightly,  that  who  saw  would  say 
Guilt  was  a  thing  impossible  in  her  ! 
Nor  idly  would  have  said — for  she  had  lived 
In  this  bad  World,  as  in  a  place  of  tombs. 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead. 

'Twas  the  cold  season  when  the  rustic's  eye 
From  the  drear  desolate  whiteness  of  his  fields 
Rolls  for  relief  to  watch  the  skyey  tints 
And  clouds  slow  varying  their  huge  imagery  ; 
When  now,  as  she  was  wont,  the  healthful  Maid 
Had  left  her  pallet  ere  one  beam  of  day 
Slanted  the  fog-smoke.     She  went  forth  alone 
Urged  by  the  indwelling  angelguide,  that  oft, 
With  dim  inexplicable  sympathies 
Disquieting  the  heart,  shapes  out  Man's  course 
To  the  ])redoomed  adventure.     Now  the  ascent 
She  climbs  of  that  steep  upland,  on  whose  top 
The  Pilgrim-man,  who  long  since  eve  had  watched 
The  alien  shine  of  unconcerning  stars. 
Shouts  to  himself,  there  first  tlie  Abbey-lights 
Seen  in  Neufchatel's  vale  ;  now  slopes  adown 
The  winding  sheep-track  vale-ward  :  when,  behold 
In  the  first  entrance  of  the  level  road 
An  unattended  team!     The  foremost  horse 
Lay  with  stretched  limbs  ;  the  others,  yet  alive 
But  stiff  and  cold,  stood  motionless,  their  manes 
Hoar  with  the  frozen  night  dews.     Dismally 
The  dark-red  dawn  now  glimmered  ;  but  its  gleams 
Disclosed  no  face  of  man.     The  maiden  paused, 
Then  hailed  who  might  be  near.     No  voice  replied 
From  the  thwart  wain  at  length  there  reached  her  ear 
A  sound  so  feeble  that  it  almost  seemed 
Distant :  and  feebly,  with  slow  effort  pushed, 


A  nii«erablo  man  crept  forth  :  bis  licnbe 
The  silent  fmt  had  eat,  scalhing  like  lire. 
Faint  on  the  shaAs  he  reBteil,     Hhe,  mean  lime, 
Saw  crowded  close  beneath  the  coverture 
A  mother  and  her  children — lifeless  all, — 
Ynt  lovely !  not  a  lineament  was  marred — 
Death  had  put  on  so  slumber-like  a  form! 
It  was  a  piteous  sight ;  and  one,  a  babe. 
The  crisp  milk  :rozen  on  its  innocent  lips, 
Lay  on  the  woman's  orm,  its  little  hand 
•Stretched  on  her  bosom 

Mutely  questioning, 
The  Maid  gazed  wildly  at  the  living  wretch. 
He,  his  head  feebly  turning,  on  the  group 
LiKiked  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  his  eye  spoke 
The  drowsy  calm  that  slealg  on  worn-out  anguish. 
She  shuddered  ;  but,  each  vainer  pang  subdued, 
Q,uick  disentangling  from  the  foremost  horse 
The  rustic  bands,  with  difficulty  and  toil 
The  stifl* cramped  team  forced  homeward.     There  arr'net 
A'lxiously  tends  him  she  with  healing  herbs, 
A. id  weeps  and  prays — but  the  numb  power  of  Death 
Spreads  o'er  his  limbs  ;  and  ere  the  noontide  hour, 
The  hovering  spirile  of  his  wife  and  babes 
Hail  him  immortal  I     Yet  amid  his  pangs, 
With  interruptions  long  from  ghastly  throes, 
His  voice  had  liiltered  out  this  simple  tale- 

The  village,  where  he  dwelt  a  husbandman. 
By  sudden  inroad  had  been  seized  and  tired 
ijite  on  the  yester-evening.     With  his  wife 
And  little  ones  he  hurried  his  escape. 
They  saw  the  neighboring  hamlets  flame,  they  heard 
Uproar  and  shrieks!  and  terror-struck  drove  on 
Through  unfrequented  roads  a  weary  way  ! 
But  saw  nor  house  nor  cottage.     All  had  quenched 
Their  evening  hearth-fire  :  for  the  alarm  had  spread. 
The  air  clipped  keen,  the  night  was  fangcd  with  ("vast. 
And  they  provisionlesa .'     The  weeping  wife 


Ill  hushed  her  children's  moans ;  and  still  they  moaiied, 

Till  fright  and  cold  and  hunger  drank  their  lite. 

They  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep,  nor  knew  'twas  death. 

Ho  only,  lashing  his  o'er- weaned  team, 

Gained  a  sad  respite,  till  heside  the  base 

Of  the  high  hill  his  foremost  horse  dropped  dead. 

Then  hopeless,  strengthless,  sick  for  lack  of  food, 

He  crept  beneath  the  coverture,  entranced, 

Till  wakened  by  the  maiden. — Such  his  tale. 

Ah  !  suflering  to  the  height  of  what  was  sufiered 
Stung  with  too  keen  a  sympathy,  the  Maid 
Brooded  with  moving  lips,  mute,  startful,  dark! 
And  now  her  flushed  tumultuous  features  shot 
Such  strange  vivacity,  as  fires  the  eye 
Of  misery  iancy- crazed  !  and  now  once  more 
Naked,  and  void,  and  fixed,  and  all  within 
The  unquiet  silence  of  confused  thought 
And  shapeless  feelings.     For  a  mighty  hand 
Was  strong  upon  her,  till  in  the  heat  of  soul 
To  the  high  hill-top  tracing  back  her  steps, 
Aside  ihe  beacon,  up  whose  smouldered  stones 
The  tender  ivy-trails  crept  thinly,  there, 
Unconscious  of  the  driving  element. 
Yea,  swallowed  up  in  the  ominous  dream,  she  sate 
Ghastly  as  broad-eyed  Slumber  I  a  dim  anguish 
Breathed  from  her  look  !  and  still  A\ath  pant  and  sob, 
Inlv  she  toiPd  to  fiec,  and  still  subdued. 
Felt  an  inevitable  Presence  near. 

Thus  as  she  toiled  in  troublous  ecstasy, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness  wrapt  her  round. 
And  a  voice  uttered  forth  unearthly  tones. 
Calming  her  soul, — '*  0  Thou  of  the  Most  High 
Cho.^en,  whom  all  the  perfected  in  Heaven 
Behold  expectant 

[The  following  frogincntd  were  iateuded  to  form  part  of  the  poem  when 

*'  Maid  beloved  of  Heaven  I 

(To  her  the  tutelary  Power  exclaimed) 


Ci'  Chaos  the  adventurous  progeny 

Thou  seest ;  foul  missiouariea  of  fbul  sire, 

Fiorce  to  legain  the  losses  of  that  hour 

When  Love  rose  glittering,  and  his  gorpcoiiji  wings 

Over  the  abj'ss  fluttered  with  such  glud  iiuise, 

As  what  time  afler  long  and  peatful  calms, 

With  slimy  shapes  and  miscreated  life 

Poisoning  the  vast  Pacific,  the  fresh  breeze 

Wakens  the  merchant-Bail  uprising.     Night 

A  heavy  unimaginable  moan 

Scot  forth,  when  she  the  Protoplast  beheld 

Stand  beauteous  on  confusion's  charmed  wave. 

Moaning  sbe  Red,  and  entered  the  Profound 

That  leads  with  downward  windings  to  tbe  cave 

Of  darkness  palpable,  desert  of  Death 

Suuk  deep  beneath  Gehenna's  massy  roots. 

There  many  a  dateless  ago  the  beldam  lurked 

And  trembled  ;  till  engendered  by  fierce  Hate, 

Fierce  Hale  and  gloomy  Hope,  a  Dream  arose, 

Shaped  like  a  black  cloud  marked  with  streaks  of  flio. 

It  roused  the  Hell-Hag  :  she  the  dew  damp  wiped 

From  ofl'her  brow,  and  through  the  uncouth  maze 

Retraced  her  stcpe ;  but  ere  she  reached  the  mouth 

or  that  drear  labyrinth,  shuddering  she  paused. 

Nor  dared  re-enter  the  diminished  Gulf 

As  through  the  dark  vaults  of  some  mouldered  tower 

(Which,  fearful  to  approach,  the  evening  hind 

Circles  at  distance  in  his  homeward  way) 

The  winds  breathe  hollow,  deemed  the  plaining  groan 

Of  prisoned  spirits  ;  with  such  fearful  voice 

Night  murmured,  and  the  sound  thro'  Chaos  went. 

Leaped  at  her  call  her  hideous-fronted  brood  ! 

A  dark  behest. they  heard,  and  rushed  on  earth  ; 

Since  that  sad  hour,  in  camps  and  courts  adored, 

Bebets  from  God,  and  tyrants  o'er  Mankind  I" 

From  his  obscure  haunt 
Sbrieked  Fear,  of  Cruelty  the  ghastly  dam, 
Fararoiu  yet  freezing,  ea^er-paced  yet  slow. 


As  she  that  creeps  from  forth  her  swampy  reeds, 
Ague,  the  hi  form  hag !  when  early  Spring 
Beams  on  the  marsh-bred  vapors. 

"  Even  so  (the  exulting  Maiden  said) 
The  sainted  heralds  of  good  tidings  fell. 
And  thus  they  witnessed  God  !   But  now  the  cloudi 
Treading,  and  storms  beneath  their  feet,  they  soar 
Higher,  and  higher  soar,  and  soaring  sing 
Loud  songs  of  triumph  !   0  ye  spirits  of  God, 
Hover  around  my  mortal  agonies  !'* 
She  spake,  and  instantly  faint  melody 
Melts  on  her  ear,  soothing  and  sad,  and  slow. 
Such  measures,  as  at  calmest  midnight  heard 
By  aged  hermit  in  his  holy  dream. 
Foretell  and  solace  death ;  and  now  they  rise 
Louder,  as  when  with  harp  and  mingled  voice 
The  white-robed*  multitude  of  slaughtered  saints 
At  Heaveu*8  wide-opened  portals  gratulant 
Receive  some  martyr'd  patriot.     The  harmony 
Entranced  the  Maid,  till  each  suspended  sense 
Brief  slumber  seized,  and  coulhsed  ecstasy. 

At  length  awakening  slow,  she  gazed  around  : 
And  through  a  mist,  the  relique  of  that  trance 
Still  thinning  as  she  gazed,  an  Isle  appeared. 
Its  high,  o*er-hanging,  white,  broad-breasted  clifls, 
Glassed  on  the  subject  ocean.     A  vast  plain 
Stretched  opposite,  where  ever  and  anon 
The  plough-man  following  sad  his  meagre  team 
Turned  up  fresh  skulls  unstarllcd,  and  the  bones 
Of  fierce  hate-breathing  combatants,  who  there 
All  mingled  lay  beneath  the  common  earth, 
Death's  gloomy  reconcilement !     O'er  the  fields 

♦  Revelati  »nd,  vi.  9.  11.  And  when  he  had  opened  the  fifth  teal,  I  saw 
under  the  altar  the  souls  of  thoin  that  were  slain  fur  the  word  of  God,  and 
for  the  t<'*tiinony  which  they  held.  And  white  robes  were  given  untu 
every  one  uf  them,  and  it  wxis  said  unto  them,  tliat  they  should  rest  yet  ftir 
a  little  season,  until  their  fellow-servants  also  and  tl  eir  brelhrvn,  that 
khould  be  killed  as  they  were,  should  be  fulfilled 


Slept  a  fmir  Form,  repairing  all  she  might, 
Her  temples  olive- wreathed ;  and  where  she  trod, 
Fresh  flowerets  rose,  and  maiiy  a  foodful  herb. 
But  wan  her  cheek,  her  footslepB  insecure, 
And  auKious  pleasure  beamed  in  her  fuint  eye. 
As  she  had  newly  left  a  couch  of  pain, 
Pale  convalescent !  (yet  some  time  to  rule 
With  power  excluEive  o'er  the  willing  world. 
That  bleat  prophetic  mandate  then  fulfilled — 
Peace  be  on  Earth  !)     A  happy  while,  but  brief, 
She  seemed  to  wander  with  aeetduous  feet, 
And  healed  the  recent  harm  of  chill  and  blight, 
And  nursed  each  plant  that  fair  and  virtuous  grew. 

But  Boon  a  deep  precureive  sound  moaned  hollow  ; 
Black  ro»!  the  clouds,  and  now  (as  in  a  dream) 
Their  reddening  shapes,  transformed  to  warrior- hosts, 
Coursed  o'er  the  sky,  and  battled  in  mid-air. 
Nor  did  not  the  targe  blood-drops  fall  from  heaven 
Portentous  '.  while  aloft  were  seen  to  float. 
Like  hideous  features  booming  on  the  mist. 
Wan  stains  of  ominous  light !     Resigned,  yet  sad. 
The  fair  Form  bowed  her  olive-crowned  brow, 
Then  o'er  the  plain  with  oft  reverted  eye 
Fled  till  a  place  of  tombs  she  reached,  aud  there 
Within  a  ruined  sepulchre  obscure 
Found  hiding-place. 

The  delegated  Maid 
tiazed  through  hor  tears,  then  in  sad  tones  exclaimed  ; — 
"  Thou  mild-eyed  Form  1  wherefore,  ah  I  wherefore  fled  ? 
The  power  of  Justice  lik  a  name  all  light, 
Shone  from  thy  brow  ;  but  all  they,  who  unblamed 
Dwelt  in  thy  dwellings,  call  thee  Happiness. 
Ah  !  why,  uninjured  and  unprofited. 
Should  multitudes  against  their  brethren  rush  ? 
Why  sow  they  guilt,  still  reaping  misery  ? 
Lenient  of  care,  thy  songs,  0  Peace  I  are  sweet, 
As  uSiev  showers  the  perfumed  gale  of  eve. 
That  flings  the  cool  drops  on  a  feverous  cheek ; 
And  g»y  thy  gransy  alUr  piled  witli  fntiU. 


But  boasts  the  shrine  of  demon  War  one  charm. 

Save  that  with  many  an  orgie  strange  and  foul. 

Dancing  around  with  interwoven  arms, 

The  maniac  Suicide  and  giant  Murder 

Exult  in  their  fierce  union  I  I  am  sad, 

And  know  not  why  the  simple  peasants  crowd 

Beneath  the  Chieftains'  standard  !"     Thus  the  Maid 

To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said  : 
*'  When  luxury  and  lust's  exhausted  stores 
No  more  can  rouse  the  appetites  of  kings  ; 
When  the  low  flattery  of  their  reptile  lords 
Falls  flat  and  heavy  on  the  accustomed  ear ; 
When  eunuchs  sing,  and  fools  bufibonery  make. 
And  dancers  writhe  their  harlot-limbs  in  vain  ; 
Then  War  and  all  its  dread  vicissitudes 
Pleasingly  agitate  their  stagnant  hearts  ; 
Its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  victories,  its  defeats, 
Insipid  royalty's  keen  condiment  I 
Therefore  uninjured  and  un profited, 
(Vicliins  at  once  and  executioners) 
The  congregated  husbandmen  lay  waste 
The  vineyard  and  the  harvest.     As  along 
The  Bothnic  coast,  or  southward  of  the  Line, 
Though  hushed  the  winds  and  cloudless  the  high  nooD, 
Yet  if  Leviathan,  weary  of  ease. 
In  sports  unwieldy  toss  his  island-bulk, 
Ocean  behind  him  billows,  and  before 
A  storm  of  waves  breaks  ioaniv  on  the  strand. 
And  lience,  for  times  and  seasons  bloody  and  dark. 
Short  Peace  shall  skin  the  wounds  of  causeless  War, 
And  War,  his  strained  sinews  knit  anew, 
Still  violate  the  untinished  works  of  Peace 
But  vonder  Iwk  I  for  more  demands  thv  view  I"' 
He  said  :  and  straightway  from  the  op^xisite  Isle 
A  vapor  sailetl.  as  when  a  cloud,  exhaletl 
Fn^n  Egypt's  fields  that  steam  hot  pestilence. 
TravoU  the  skv  for  nianv  a  trackless  leasrue. 
Til!  o*er  smne  death-dtxnned  land,  distant  in  vain. 
It  bnt««ils  inruniU*nt.     Forthwiih  fnuii  the  plain. 


Facing  the  Isle,  a  brighter  cloud  arose, 

And  steered  its  couree  which  way  the  vapor  went 

The  Maiden  paused,  musing  what  this  might  [nt!,ia. 
But  long  lime  passed  not,  ere  th&t  brighter  cloud 
Kctiirued  more  bright  ;   along  the  plain  it  swept  , 
Aud  soon  from  forth  its  bursting  sides  emerged 
A  dazzlinfr  form,  broad-bosomed,  bold  of  eye, 
And  wild  her  hair,  save  where  with  laurels  bound. 
14'ot  more  majestic  stood  the  healing  God, 
When  from  bis  bow  the  arrow  sped  that  slew 
Huge  Python.     Shriek'd  Ambition's  giant  throng. 
And  with  them  hissed  the  locust-tiendB  that  crawled 
And  glittered  in  Corruption's  slimy  track. 
Great  was  their  wrath,  for  short  they  knew  their  reign , 
And  such  commotion  made  they,  and  uproar,' 
As  when  the  mad  tornado  bellows  through 
The  guilty  islands  of  the  western  main, 
Whut  time  departing  from  their  native  shores, 
Eboe,  or  'Koromantyn's  plain  of  palms, 

*  The  SUvm  in  tbe  Wftt  Indies  oonsiiler  ilenth  u  s  passport  to  tbMr 
untive  Nuntrj.  This  seatiment  ia  thua  cipresaed  in  tbe  iatroduetJoo  to 
A  Greek  Priiis-Ode  on  the  SUve-Trailc,  uf  whieli  the  tUuuglila  are  better 
than  the  language  in  which  they  are  eoaveyeiL 

'O  OKOTOt}  iniAai  Qiivart,  irpoSiti-Truii 

'Ef  jivDi  (Tirnidoit  (jrofru^flh'  'Arf 

Oil  {eviuAJmj  yrvvuv  awapay/uiic, 
Oii-  bi^'Aiyiuf, 

'AUd  Koi  kvkTlouji  ;(opoiriijrDioi, 

K'uo/uinjv  Jtnpp'  ^odipb^  iitv  iool 

^Tvyvt  Tvpapvt  t 
iaanioi;  iirl  urtpiyeaei  oj/ui 
'At  'Baiaaatov  taSnpiivrec  oi'Iua 
A.t6ip(mXayKT0ic  vird  iroaa"  ilveiai 

l\aTpiff  (jf  ulo)'. 
'EvAi  /iHv  '£paaai  'Bpupev^iv 
'A/i^  mtyyaii'  mrpiwov  iir'  ilAoww, 
"Ood'  iiird  lipoToli  liradov  ffporol,  tA 

LMving  Um  gates  of  darkii«M.  O  Deatli  1  Imsttii  thou  to  a  tm«  ^oV*^ 


The  infuriate  spirits  of  the  murdered  make 
Fierce  merriment,  and  vengeanoe  ask  of  Heaven. 
Warmed  with  new  influencei  the  unwholesome  pi 
Sent  up  its  foulest  fogs  to  meet  the  morn  : 
The  Sun  that  rose  on  Freedom,  rose  in  blood. ! 

*'  Maiden  beloved,  and  Delegate  of  Heaven  ! 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said) 
Soon  shall  the  morning  struggle  into  day. 
The  stormy  morning  uito  cloudless  noon. 
Much  hast  thou  seen,  nor  all  canst  understand — 
But  this  be  thy  best  omen — Save  thy  Country  I" 
Thus  saying,  from  the  answering  Maid  he  passed, 
And  with  him  disappeared  the  heavenly  Vision. 

"Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  1 
All  conscious  presence  of  the  Universe  I 
Nature's  vast  ever-acting  energy  I 
In  will,  in  deed,  impulse  of  All  to  All  I 
Whether  thy  L#ove  with  unrefractcd  ray 
Beam  on  the  Prophet's  purged  eye,  or  if 
Diseasing  realms  the  enthusiast,  wild  of  thought, 
Sc*atler  new  frenzies  on  the  infected  throng. 
Thou  both  inspiriUjff  and  predooming  both. 
Fit  instruments  and  best,  of  perfect  end  : 
Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  I" 

And  first  a  landscape  rose 
More  wild  and  waste  and  desolate  than  where 
The  white  bear,  drifting  on  a  field  of  ice. 
Howls  to  her  sundered  cubs  with  piteous  rage 
And  savage  agony. 

with  misery  I  Thou  wilt  not  bo  received  with  biceratioos  of  cheeks,  nor 
with  funeral  ululation — but  with  circling  dunces  and  the  joy  of  song^ 
Thou  art  terrible  indeed,  yet  thou  dweUest  with  Liberty,  etern  Genius! 
Borne  on  thy  dark  pini«>ns  over  the  swelling  of  Ocean,  they  return  to  their 
native  country.  ITiere,  by  the  sitie  of  fountains  beneath  citron-groves,  the 
lovers  tell  to  their  beloved  what  horrors,  being  men,  they  bad  endured 
frum  loeo. 


GoitD,  if  Btorying  LegeDds  tell  aright. 

Once  framed  a  rich  Elixir  of  Delight. 

A  Chalice  o'er  love-kindled  flames  he  fix'd, 

And  in  it  necUr  and  ambrosia  mii'd  : 

With  these  the  magic  dewa,  which  Evening  brings, 

Brush'd  from  the  Idalian  Star  by  faery  wings  : 

Each  tender  pledge  of  sacred  Faith  he  joined, 

Each  gentler  pleasure  of  th'  unspotted  mind — 

Day-dreams,  whose  tints  with  sportivo  brightness  glow. 

And  Hope,  the  blameless  PaFasito  of  Woe. 

The  eyeless  Chemist  heard  tlio  process  riie. 

The  steamy  Chalice  bubbled  up  in  sighs  ; 

Sweet  sounds  transpired,  as  when  th'  enamored  Dova 

Pouni  the  soft  murm'rings  of  responsive  love. 

The  finished  work  might  Envy  vainly  blame, 

And  "  Kisses"  was  the  precious  compound's  namo ; 

With  half  the  tiod  his  Cyprian  Uolher  blest. 

And  breathed  on  Sara's  lovelier  lips  the  rest. 

Sister  of  love-lorn  poets,  Philomel ! 
How  many  bardu  in  cily  garret  pent, 
While  at  their  window  they  with  downward  eye 
Mark  the  faint  lamp-beam  on  the  kennetl'd  mud, 
And  listen  to  the  drowsy  cry  of  watchmen, 
Those  hoarse,  unfeathered  nightingales  of  lime  I 
How  many  wretched  bards  address  thy  name, 
And  her's,  the  full-orbed  queen,  that  shines  abova. 
But  I  do  bear  thee,  and  the  high  bough  mark, 
Within  wboM  mild  moon-mellowed  foliage  hid. 
Thou  vrarblest  sad  thy  pity-pleading  strains. 
0,  I  have  listened,  till  my  working  soul, 
Waked  by  those  strains  to  thousand  fantasies. 
Absorbed,  hath  ceased  to  listen  1     Therefore  oft 
I  hymn  thy  name ;  and  with  a  proud  delight 
(»l  will  1  t«ll  thee,  minstrel  of  the  moon, 
VOL.  va.  B 


*'  Most  musical,  most  melancholy*'  bird ! 

That  all  thy  soil  diversities  of  tone, 

Though  sweeter  far  than  the  delicious  airs 

That  vibrate  from  a  white-armed  lady's  harp. 

What  time  the  languishment  of  lonely  love 

Melts  iu  her  eye,  and  heaves  her  breast  of  snow. 

Are  not  so  sweet,  as  is  the  voice  of  her. 

My  Sara — best  beloved  of  human  kind ! 

When  breathing  the  pure  soul  of  tenderness. 

She  thrills  me  with  the  husband's  promised  name ! 



Thus  far  my  scanty  brain  hath  built  the  rhyme 

Elaborate  and  swelling ; — yet  the  heart 

Not  owns  it.     From  thy  spirit-breathing  powers 

I  ask  not  now,  my  friend  !  the  aiding  verso 

Tedious  to  thee,  and  from  thy  anxious  thought 

Of  dissonant  mood.     In  fancy  (well  I  know) 

From  business  wandering  far  and  local  cdres, 

Thou  creepest  round  a  dear-loved  sister's  bed 

With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look, 

Siwthing  each  pang  with  fond  solicitude, 

And  lenderest  tones  medicinal  of  love. 

I,  too,  a  sister  had,  an  only  sister — 

•She  loved  nie  dearly,  and  1  doted  on  her ; 

To  her  I  poured  forth  all  my  puny  sorrows, 

(As  a  sick  patient  in  a  nurse's  arms,) 

And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies 

That  e'en  from  friendship's  eye  will  shrink  ashamed. 

0  !  I  have  waked  at  midnight,  and  have  wept 

Because  she  was  not  I — Cheerily,  dear  Charles  ! 

Thou  thy  best  friend  shalt  cherish  many  a  year ; 

Such  warm  presages  feel  1  of  high  hope ! 

For  not  uninterested  the  dear  maid 

I've  viewd — her  soul  aflectionate  yet  wise, 

Her  polished  wit  as  mild  as  lambent  glories 

That  play  around  a  sainted  infant's  head. 

He  knows,  (the  Spirit  that  in  secret  sees, 


or  whose  omnitcieDt  and  atl-Rpreading  love 
Aught  to  imploTO  were  impotence  of  mind  !)* 
That  my  mute  thoughtg  arc  sad  before  hii  throne, — 
Prepared,  when  He  his  heiding  rays  voucheafeE, 
ThankBgiving  to  pour  forth  with  lilled  heart, 
And  praise  him  gracious  with  a  brother's  joy  ! 



Ii  ire  except  LucretiuB  and  Statiim,  I  knov  do  Latin  Poet,  ancient  or 
modera,  wbo  has  equalled  Casimir  in  boldoew  of  eonceptioo,  opulence  of 
bocy,  or  beauty  of  Teraification.  llie  Odea  of  thi«  illustrioiu  Jeauit  vera 
translated  into  Eogliih  about  160  years  ago.  by  a  Q.  Uila,  I  tbinkf  I  never 
■aw  the  translation.  A  fuw  of  the  Odea  hava  been  translated  Uk  a  very 
■ninutad  manner  by  Watts.  1  hare  Eubjoiaed  the  third  Odo  of  the  Second 
Book,  irhicb,  irith  the  exception  of  the  first  line,  is  an  effusion  of  exquisite 
elegance.  In  the  imitation  attempted,  1  am  sensible  that  I  have  deati'Oyed 
the  efiect  of  suddenness,  by  translating  into  two  staniua  what  is  one  in  the 

AD    LTRaM. 

SoKORa  buxi  filia  sutilis, 
Pendehia  alta,  harhite,  populo, 
Dum  ridet  aer,  et  supiuas 

Sollicitat  levis  aura  frondes. 

Te  aibilantia  lenior  halitus 
Perflabit  Buri :  me  juvet  interim 
Cotlnm  rechnassc,  et  virenti 
Sic  tcmeret  jat-uisBe  ripa. 

*  "  I  utterly  reeant  the  reeant  the  sentiment  contained  in  the  ha«« 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-sprending  love 
Anght  to  implort  were  impotpno!  of  mind, — 
it  being  written  in  Scripture,  Att,  and  it  ghall  be  given  to  yoa  I  and  niy 
human  reason  being  omtvineed,  moreover,  of  the  propriety  of  offeriii;; 
prtilirm*  as  well  as  thanksgiTings  to  Deity.    8.  T.  C,  1T97. 

I  He  Odes  of  Caumir,  translated  by  O.  H.  (O.  Uils.)    I»ndou,  \M&. 
151O0.     K  N.  C. 
\  Uad  Casimir  any  batter  authority  for  this  quantity  than  IWlulIian'i 

Immenior  ilia  Dei  temere  committere  tale~- 1 
la  the  dasaiG  poet*,  the  last  sjllable  is,  1  believe,  un  formly  cut  nil.  Y\.'¥l  .C 


Ehen  !  sereniiin  qiue  nebuls  tegnnt 
Bepeate  ocelQin !  quis  sonus  iinbrium ! 
Surgamus — heu  semper  fogaoi 
Gaudia  pnBtentara  passu. 


The  solemn-breathing  air  is  ended — 
Cease,  0  Lyre !  thy  kindred  lay ! 

From  the  poplar  branch  suspended. 
Glitter  to  the  eye  of  day ! 

On  thy  wires,  hovering,  dying, 
Softly  sighs  the  summer  wind ; 

I  will  slumber,  careless  lying, 
By  you  waterfall  reclined. 

In  the  forest,  hollow-roaring. 

Hark  !  I  hear  a  deepening  sound — 

Clouds  rise  thick  with  heavy  lowering ! 
See !  the  horizon  blackens  round ! 

Parent  of  the  soothing  measure, 
Let  me  seize  thy  wetted  string ! 

Swiftly  flies  the  flatterer,  Pleasure, 
Headlong,  ever  on  the  wiiig ! 


{Composed  during  Jllnen  and.  in  Absence.) 

Dim  Hour !  that  sleep'st  on  pillowed  clouds  afar, 
0  rise,  and  yoke  the  turtles  to  thy  car ! 
Bend  o'er  the  traces,  blame  each  lingering  dove. 
And  give  me  to  the  bosom  of  my  Love  I 
My  gentle  love  !  caressing  and  carest,     ^ 
With  heaving  heart  shall  cradle  me  to  rest ; 
Shed  the  warm  tear-drop  from  her  smiling  eyes, 
Lull  with  fond  woe,  and  med'cine  me  with  sighs ; 
While  finely-flushing  float  her  kisses  meek. 
Like  melted  rubies,  o'er  my  pallid  che«k 


Chitl'd  b)  iho  night,  the  drooping  rose  of  May 
MouniE  the  long  ab«ence  of  the  lovely  Day  : 
Young  Day,  returning  at  her  promised  hour, 
Weeps  o'er  the  sorrows  of  the  fav'rite  flower, — 
Weeps  the  sofl  dew,  the  balmy  gale  she  sighs. 
And  darts  a  trembling  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
Kew  life  and  joy  th'  expanding  flow'ret  feels  : 
His  pitying  mistrew  mourns,  and  mourning  heals  ! 


Hoarse  Mffivius  reads  his  hobbling  vene 

To  all,  and  at  all  times ; 
And  finds  them  both  divinely  smooth. 

His  voice  as  well  as  rhymes. 

Yet  folks  say — "  Mravius  is  no  ass  ;" 

But  MfBviua  makes  it  dear. 
That  he's  a  monster  of  an  ass — 

An  am  without  an  ear. 


This  day  among  the  faithful  placed. 
And  fed  with  fontal  manna, 

0  with  maternal  title  graced — 
Dear  Anna's  dearest  Anna  I — 

While  others  with  thee  wise  and  fair, 

A  maid  of  spotless  fame, 
I'll  breathe  this  more  compendious  prayer— 

May'st  thou  deserve  thy  name ! 

Thy  mother's  name — a  potent  spell. 

That  bids  the  virtues  hie 
From  mystic  grove  and  living  cell 

ConfeM'd  to  lancy's  eye — 



Meek  quietness  without  ofienoe  ; 

Content  in  homespun  kirtle  ; 
True  love  ;  and  true  love's  innocenofi. 

White  blossom  of  the  myrtle ! 


Associates  of  thy  name,  sweet  child ! 

These  virtues  mayst  thou  win ; 
With  face  as  eloquently  mild, 

To  say,  they  lodge  within. 


So,  when  her  tale  of  days  all  flown. 

Thy  mother  shall  be  mist  here ; 
When  Heaven  at  length  shall  claim  its  owa 

And  angels  snatch  their  sister ; 


Some  hoary-headed  friend,  perchance, 

May  gaze  with  stifled  breath  ; 
And  oft,  111  momentary  trance, 

Forget  the  waste  of  death. 


E'en  thus  a  lovely  rose  I  view'd. 

In  summer-swelling  pride ; 
Nor  mark'd  the  bud  that,  green  and  rudc^ 

Peep'd  at  the  rose's  side. 


It  chanced,  I  pass'd  again  that  way, 

In  autumn's  latest  hour, 
And  wond'ring  saw  the  selfsame  spray 

Rich  with  the  selfsame  flower. 


Ah,  fond  deceit !  the  rude  green  bud, 

Alike  in  shape,  place,  name, 

Had  bloom'd,  where  bloom'd  its  parent  stud. 

Another  and  the  same ! 




Good  verse  inoit  good,  and  had  Ttrra  tbea  wciiu  better 

Ji«c«iT«<l  from  absent  friend  by  yra-y  of  Letter, 

For  whut  so  Bweet  cm  labored  lnj  impart 

As  one  rude  rbyme  warm  from  a  frjeadly  heart  I — Anon. 

Nor  travels  my  meandering  eye 
The  starry  witderncss  on  high  ; 

Nor  now  with  cnrious  sight 
I  mark  the  glow-worm  as  I  paw, 
More  with  "  green  radiance"  through  the  gnm, 

An  emerald  of  light. 

0  ever  present  to  my  view  ! 
My  wafted  spirit  is  with  you, 

And  soothes  your  boding  fears  : 

1  lee  you  all  oppressed  with  gloom 
Sit  lonely  in  that  cheerless  room — 

Ah  me  !     You  are  in  tears! 

Beloved  Woman !  did  you  fly 

Chilled  Frf^dship's  dark  disliking  eye. 

Or  Mirth's  untimely  dia?  - 

"With  cruel  weight  these  trifles  press 
A  temper  Bore  with  tenderness. 

When  aches  the  Void  within. 

But  why  with  sable  wand  unblest 
Should  Fancy  rouse  within  my  breast 

Dim-visaged  shapes  of  Dread  ? 
Untenanting  ila  beauteous  clay 
Uy  Sara's  soul  has  winged  its  way, 

And  hovers  round  my  head  1 

I  felt  it  prompt  the  tender  dream, 
When  slowly  sank  the  day's  last  gleam  ; 

You  roused  each  gentler  sense. 
As  sighing  o'er  the  blossom's  bloom 
Meek  evening  wakes  its  soft  perfume 

With  viewless  influence. 

104  ;rUV£NILE  POEMS. 

And  hark,  my  Love !  The  sea-breeze  moans 
Through  yoa  ref^  house  !     0*er  rolling  stones 

In  bold  ambitious  sweep, 
The  onward-surging  tide  supply 
The  silence  of  the  cloudless  sky 

With  mimic  thunders  deep. 

Dark  reddening  from  the  channelled  Isle* 
(Where  stands  one  solitary  pile 

Unstated  by  the  blast) 
The  watch-fire,  like  a  sullen  star, 
Twinkles  to  many  a  dozing  tar 

Bude  cradled  on  the  mast. 

Even  there — ^beneath  that  light-house  tower- 
In  the  tumultuous  evil  hour 

Ere  Peace  with  Sara  came. 
Time  was,  I  should  have  thought  it  sweet 
To  count  the  echoings  of  my  feet, 

And  watch  the  storm- vexed  flame. 

And  there  in  black  soul-jaundiced  fit 
A  sad  gloom-pampered  Man  to  sit, 

And  listen  to  the  roar  : 
When  mountain  surges  bellowing  deep 
With  an  uncouth  monster  leap 

Plunged  foaming  on  the  shore. 

Then  by  the  lightning's  blaze  to  mark 
Some  toiling  tempest-shattered  bark  ; 

Her  vain-distress  guns  hear  ; 
And  when  a  second  sheet  of  light 
Flash'd  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  night — 

To  see  no  vessel  there  I 

But  Fancy  now  more  gaily  sings  ; 
Or  if  a  while  she  droop  her  wings 

*  The  Holmes,  in  the  Bristol  ChanneL 


As  sky-larks  'mid  the  corn, 
On  summer  ficldii  she  grounds  her  breast : 
The  oblirioug  poppy  o'er  her  nest 

Nods,  till  returning  morn. 

O  mark  those  smiling  tears,  that  swell 
The  opened  rose  !     From  heaven  they  fell, 

And  with  the  sun-beam  blend. 
Blest  visitations  from  above. 
Such  are  the  tender  woes  of  Love 

Fostering  the  heart  they  bend  ! 

"When  stormy  Midnight  howling  round 
Beats  on  our  roof  with  clattering  sound. 

To  me  your  arms  you'll  stretch  : 
Great  God !  you'll  say — To  ua  so  kind, 

0  shelter  from  this  loud  bleak  wind 
The  houseless,  friendless  wretch ! 

The  tears  that  tremble  dowit  your  cheek 
Shall  bathe  my  kisses  chaste  and  meek 

In  Pity's  dew  divine  ; 
And  from  your  heart  the  sighs  that  steal 
Shalt  make  your  rising  bosom  feel 

The  answering  swell  of  mine  ! 

How  oft.  my  Love  I  with  shapings  sweet  1 

1  paint  the  moment  we  shall  meet '. 

With  eager  speed  1  dart — 
I  seize  you  in  the  vacant  air, 
And  fancy,  with  a  husband's  care 

I  press  you  to  my  heart ! 

'Tis  said,  in  Summer's  evening  hour 
Flashes  the  goldeti-colored  flower 

A  fair  electric  flame : 
And  so  shall  flash  my  love-charged  eye. 
When  all  the  heart's  big  ecstasy 

Bhoobi  rapid  through  the  frame  1 



Whkn  I  haye  bom«  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  Datioos,  how  emiobliog  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  nnnamud 

I  had,  my  country  I    Am  I  to  be  blamed  1 

But,  when  I  think  of  Thee,  and  wliat  thou  art^ 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  of  the  cause  of  men ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled 

What  wonder  if  a  poet,  now  and  then. 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind. 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  Lover  or  a  Child 


loC     lot),   a   &   KOKli. 

^rpoCcij  rapdaauv  ^polfiiot^  f^ij/dot^t 

To  /UXimi  ^(tt,     Koi  ao  fi'  Iv  Tuxti  TOp&v 
'Ajav  y  il^i/So/iavTiv  olxTeipa;  ipei(. 

jEiehyl  Agam.  ISiS. 

Thk  Ode  «omiii«ic«B  wiLh  an  iddreu  to  the  Divine  Providence,  that  r<8 
nlatei  into  ooe  vwt  liAraioD;  all  the  eventa  of  time,  hovever  e&lamiton* 
■DiDfl  of  theu  maj  sppenr  to  mortals.  The  eeccmd  Strophe  calli  oa  men  to 
■uapnid  their  privBLe  Joja  and  sorroiTB,  and  devote  them  for  b  while  to  the 
eaiue  of  hitman  natnre  in  geoeral.  The  first  Epode  ipe«b  of  the  Emprew 
of  BoMia,  who  died  of  an  apoplexj  on  ths  11th  of  Norember,  11911 ;  hav- 
iag  joat  ooDcluded  a  luhudiarj  treatj  nith  the  Kinga  oomldned  againit 
Fraoea.  Hie  Srat  and  aeeond  Antistrophe  desoriba  the  Image  of  the  De- 
parting Year,  &«■  aa  in  a  viuon.  The  leeond  Epode  propheaies,  in  RDguiah 
of  ipirit,  the  dotni&Il  of  thia  eountry. 

Spirit  who  iweepest  the  wild  harp  of  Time  ! 

It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  car 

Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonics  to  hear ! 
Yet,  mine  eye  fixed  on  Heaven's  unchanging  ctime, 
Ijong  had  I  listened,  free  from  mortal  fear. 

With  inward  stillnesa,  and  a  bowed  mind  ; 

When  lo !  its  ibldn  far  waving  on  the  wind, 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  Year ' 

Starting  from  my  silent  sadness 

Then  with  no  unholy  madness 
Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 
I  raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnized  his  flight. 

>a  eompoaed  on  the  S4th,  sath,  and  2Bth  daja  of  Deccmbec 
le  laat  day  of  that  year. 



Hither,  from  the  recent  tomb, 

From  the  prison's  direr  gloom, 
From  distemper's  midnight  anguish  ; 
And  thence,  where  poverty  doth  waste  and  languiah ! 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending, 

Love  illumines  manhood's  maze  ; 
Or  where  o'er  cradled  infants  bending 
Hope  has  fixed  her  wishful  gaze  ; 

Hither,  in  perplexed  dance. 
Ye  Woes  I  ye  young-eyed  Joys  I  advance  I 

By  Time's  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 

Whose  indefatigable  sweep 

Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 
I  bid  you  haste,  a  mixed  tumultuous  band  ! 

From  every  private  bower, 
And  each  domestic  hearth. 

Haste  for  one  solemn  hour  ; 

And  with  a  loud  and  yet  a  louder  voice. 
O'er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth. 

Weep  and  rejoice  I 
Slill  echoes  the  dread  name  that  o'er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  Hell : 

And  now  advance  in  saintly  jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth  !   They  too  have  heard  thy  spell, 

They  too  obey  thy  name,  divinest  Liberty  I 


I  marked  Ambition  in  his  war-array  ! 

I  heard  the  mailed  Monarch's  troublous  cry — 
"  Ah  I  wherefore  does  the  Northern  Conqueress  stay  I 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  ?" 
Fly,  mailed  Monarch,  fly  I 

Stunned  by  Death's  twice  mortal  mace. 

No  more  on  murder's  lurid  face 
The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye  ! 

Manes  of  the  unnumbered  slain  ! 

Ye  that  gasped  on  Warsaw's  plain ! 


To  that  erst  at  Lunail's  tower, 
When  hnman  ruin  choked  the  Btreanu. 

Fell  in  conquest's  glutted  hour. 
Mid  women's  shrieks  and  infants'  ECTeams ! 

Spirits  of  the  uncofBncd  slain. 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling, 

on,  at  night,  in  misty  train. 

Hush  around  her  narrow  dwelling ! 

The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled — 

(Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom) 
Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance,  like  death-fires,  round  her  tomb  I 
Then  with  the  prophetic  song  relate, 
Each  some  tyrant- murderer's  fate  1 

Departing  Year  I  'twas  on  no  earthly  shore 

My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  I     Where  alone, 

Voicelees  and  stem,  before  the  cloudy  throne, 
Aye  Memory  sits  :  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 
With  many  an  unimaginablo  groan 

Thou  Btoried'st  thy  sad  hours !     Silence  ensued. 

Deep  silence  o'er  the  ethereal  multitude. 

Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with  glories  shone. 

Then,  bis  eye  wild  ardors  glancing, 

From  the  choired  gods  advancing, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  made  reverence  meet, 

And  stood  np,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  sent. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng, 

Hushed  were  harp  and  song  : 
Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Larapads  sevon, 

(The  mystic  Words  of  Heaven) 

Permissive  signal  make  : 
The  fervent  Spirit  bowed,  then  spread  hi(  wings  and  spake  '. 
"  Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 

Love  and  uncreated  Light, 
By  the  Earth's  unsolaced  groaning. 

Seize  thy  terron.  Arm  of  might! 


By  peace  with  profiered  insult  scaled, 
Masked  hate  and  envying  scorn ! 
By  years  of  havoc  yet  unborn ! 
And  hunger's  bosom  to  the  frost-winds  bared  ! 
But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs, 
Strange,  horrible,  and  foul ! 
Bj  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  *  full  of  gifls  and  lies  !' 
By  wealth's  insensate  laugh  !  by  torture's  howl ! 
Avenger,  rise ! 
Forever  shall  the  thankless  Island  scowl, 
Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  ? 
Speak  !  from  thy  storm-black  Heaven  0  speak  aloud  1 

And  on  the  darkling  foe 
Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud  ! 

0  dart  the  flash  I     0  rise  and  deal  the  blow  ! 
The  Past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  Future  cries  I 

Hark  I  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  below ! 
Rise,  God  of  Nature  !  rise." 


The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled  ; 
Yet  still  I  gasped  and  reeled  with  dread. 
And  ever;  when  the  dream  of  niirht 
Renews  the  pliantom  to  my  sijrht. 
Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs ; 

Mv  ears  throb  hot ;  mv  eye-balls  start : 
My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims  : 

Wild  is  the  tcmjHJst  of  my  heart  • 
And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  death  ! 
No  stranger  agony  confounds 

The  soldier  on  the  war-field  spread. 
When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds. 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead  ! 
(The  strife  is  o*er,  the  daylight  fled. 

And  the  night-wind  clamors  hoarse  ! 
See  !  the  starting  wretches  head 

Lies  pillowed  on  a  brother^  corse  I) 


Ifot  yet  enBlaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
O  Albion  !     0  my  mother  Isle  ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  aa  Eden's  bowers. 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers  ; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  blest  of  flocks  ; 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) 
And  Ocean  raid  his  uproar  wild 
Speaks  safety  to  his  island-cbild, 

Hence  for  many  a  fearless  age 

Has  social  Q,uict  loved  thy  shore  ; 
Nor  ever  proud  invader's  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  toweis,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  goro. 

Abandoned  of  Heaven  !  mad  avarice  thy  guide. 
At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 
Hid  thy  herds  and  thy  com-flelds  secure  thou  hast  stood 
And  joined  the  wild  yelling  of  famine  and  blood  ! 
The  nations  curse  thee  [     They  with  eager  wondering 

Shall  hear  Destruction,  like  a  vulture,  scream  '. 

Slrange-eyed  Destruction  !  who  with  many  a  dream 
Of  central  fires  through  nether  seas  upthundering 

Soothes  her  fierce  solitude  ;  yet  as  she  lies 
By  livid  fount,  or  red  volcanic  stream. 

If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 

0  Albion  !  thy  predestined  ruins  rise, 
The  fiend-bag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap. 
Muttering  distempered  triumph  in  her  charmed  steep. 

Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 
In  vain,  in  vain  the  birds  of  warning  sing— 
And  hark !  I  hear  the  famished  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind  ! 
Away,  my  sonl,  away  '. 
■  I  nnpartaking  of  the  evij  thing, 


With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil, 
Have  wailed  ray  country  with  a  loud  Lament. 
Now  I  recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sahbath  of  meek  self-content ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God's  Image,  sister  of  the  Seraphim. 



Ye  Clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause. 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

Ye  Ocean-Waves  !  that,  wheresoe*er  ye  roll. 
Yield  homage  oifly  to  eternal  laws  ! 
Ye  Woods  !  that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging. 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wnnd  ! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound. 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound  ! 
0  ye  loud  Waves  I  and  0  ye  Forests  high  I 

And  0  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  ! 
Thou  rising  Sun  !  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky  I 

Yea  ever}-  thing  that  is  and  will  be  free  ! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be. 

With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 


When  France  in  uTath  her  giant-limbs  upreared, 

And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air,  earth,  and  sea, 
Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would  be  free. 

Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  feared  I 

With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 
Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band  : 


All']  when  to  whelm  the  diBenchnnled  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand, 
The  MonarchB  marched  in  evil  day, 
And  Britain  joined  the  dire  ftrra]'  ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean, 
Though  many  friendHhips,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  HwoU'n  the  patriot  emotion 
And  dung  a  magic  Lght  o'er  all  her  hills  and  grovei ; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelHng  lance, 
And  shame  loo  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat ! 
For  ne'er,  0  Liberty !  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  Jlame  ; 

But  blessed  the  pffians  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 

"And  what,"  I  said,  "  though  Blasphemy's  loud  Kreain 

With  that  sweet  music  of  deJiverancs  strove  ! 

Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions  wove    , 
A  dftnce  more  wild  tbaa  e'er  was  maniac's  dream  I     ' 

Y<9  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east  assembled. 
The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  light'." 

And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and  trembled. 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed  calm  and  bright ; 

When  France  her  front  dcep-scarr'd  and  gory 

nonnealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory  ; 
When,  insupportably  advancing. 

Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  tramp  ; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing. 

Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her  fatal  stamp. 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  diagon  in  his  gore  ; 

Theot  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not  flee  ; 
"And  soon,"  I  said,  "shall  Wisdom  teach  her  lore 
la  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan  ! 
And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 

&'aall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Till  Love  anrl  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  Earth  their  own  " 



Forgive  me,  Freedom  !  0  forgive  those  dreams ! 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 

From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  cavern  sent — 
I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stained  streams ! 

Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  perished, 
And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 

With  bleeding  -wounds  ;  forgive  me,  that  I  cherishea 
One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes  ! 

To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt. 

Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built ; 
A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear ; 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 
To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  mountaineer — 
O  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind. 

And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils. 
Arc  these  thy  boasts,  Champion  of  human  kind  ? 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway. 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous  prey : 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 

From  freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  and  to  betray  ? 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In  mad  game 
Thev  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 


Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  • 
0  Liberty  !  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  wear\'  hour ; 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe*er  they  praise  thee, 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee) 

Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions. 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the  waves ' 
And  there  I  felt  thee  !^on  that  sea-clifTs  verge, 
Whose  pines,  scar*?e  travelled  by  the  breeze  above. 


H&d  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge  * 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare. 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea  and  air. 
Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 
O  Liberty  !  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
Fcfruary,  1197. 


WRITTEN    IN    APRIL,    1798,   DUItINO    THE    ALARM    OP    A? 

A  GKEEN  and  silent  spot,  amid  the  hilts, 
A  small  and  silent  dell !     O'er  stilleT  place 
No  singing  sky-lark  ever  poised  himself. 
The  hills  are  heathy,  save  that  swelling  slope. 
Which  hath  a  gay  Emd  gorgeous  covering  on, 
All  golden  with  the  nevor-blooralcss  furze. 
Which  now  blooms  most  profusely :  but  the  dell. 
Bathed  by  the  mist,  is  fresh  and  delicate 
As  venial  cornfield,  or  the  unripe  flax. 
When,  through  its  half- trans  parent  stalks,  at  eve 
The  level  sunshine  glimmers  with  green  light. 
Oh  I  'tis  a  quiet  spirit-healing  nook  ! 
Which  all,  methinks,  would  love  ;  but  chiefly  he 
The  humble  man,  who,  In  his  youthful  years. 
Knew  just  so  much  of  folly,  as  bad  made 
His  early  manhood  more  securely  wise  '. 
Here  he  might  lie  on  fern  or  withered  heath, 
While  from  the  singing-lark  (that  sings  uns«en 
The  minstrelsy  that  solitude  loves  best.) 
And  from  the  sun,  and  from  the  breezy  air, 
Sweet  influences  trembled  o'er  his  frame  ; 
And  he,  with  many  feelings,  many  thoughts, 
Made  np  a  meditative  joy,  and  found 
Religious  meanings  in  the  forms  of  nature  '. 
And  so,  his  senses  gradually  wrapt 
In  a  half  sleep,  he  dreams  of  better  worlds. 
And  dreaming  hears  thee  still,  0  singing-lark; 
That  aingeat  like  an  angel  in  the  clouds  ' 


My  God  !  it  is  a  melancholy  thing 
For  such  a  man,  \Krho  would  full  tain  presenro 
His  soul  in  calmness,  yet  perforce  must  feel 
For  all  his  human  brethren — 0  my  God ! 
It  weighs  upon  the  heart,  that  he  must  think 
What  uproar  and  what  strife  may  now  he  stirring 
This  way  or  that  way  o'er  these  silent  hills- 
Invasion,  and  the  thunder  and  the  shout. 
And  all  the  crash  of  onset ;  fear  and  rage, 
And  undetermined  conflict— even  now, 
Even  now,  perchance,  and  in  his  native  isle : 
Carnage  and  groans  beneath  this  blessed  suu  ! 
We  have  ofieuded.  Oh !  my  countrymen ! 
We  have  offended  very  grievously, 
And  been  most  tyrannous.     From  east  to  west 
A  groan  of  accusation  pierces  Heaven ! 
The  wretched  plead  against  us  ;  multitudes 
Countless  and  vehement,  the  sons  of  Gwl, 
Our  brethren !     Like  a  cloud  that  travels  on. 
Steamed  up  from  Cairo's  swamps  of  pestilence 
Even  so,  my  countrymen  I  have  we  gone  forth 
And  borne  to  distant  tribes  slavery  and  pangs, 
And,  deadlier  far.  our  vices,  whose  deep  taint 
With  slow  perdition  murders  the  whole  man. 
His  body  and  his  soul !     Meanwhile,  at  home. 
All  individual  dignity  and  power 
Ingulfed  in  courts,  committees,  institutions. 
Associations  and  societies, 

A  vain,  speech-mouthing,  speech-reporting  guild, 
One  benefit-club  for  mutual  flattery, 
We  have  drunk  up,  demure  as  at  a  grace, 
Pollutions  from  the  brimming  cup  of  wealth  ; 
Contemptuous  of  all  honorable  rule, 
Yet  bartering  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  life 
For  gold,  as  at  a  market  I     The  sweet  words 
Of  Christian  promise,  words  that  even  yet 
Might  stem  destruction,  were  they  wisely  prenched. 
Are  muttered  o*er  by  men,  whose  tones  proclaim 
How  flat  and  wearisome  they  feel  their  trade  : 
Rank  scoffers  some,  but  most  too  indolent 


To  deem  them  falsehoods  or  to  know  their  truth. 
Oh!  blasphemonal  the  book  of  life  is  made 
A  supeTstitioua  ioetruineat,  on  which 
yfe  gabble  o'er  the  oaths  we  mean  to  break  ; 
For  all  must  swear — all  and  in  every  place, 
College  and  wharf,  council  and  justice-court ; 
All,  all  must  swear,  the  briber  and  the  bribed. 
Merchant  and  lawyer,  senator  and  priest, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  old  man  and  the  young; 
All,  all  make  up  one  scheme  of  peijuiy, 
That  faith  doth  reel ;  the  very  name  of  God 
Sounds  like  a  juggler's  charm  ;  and,  bold  with  joy. 
Forth  from  his  dark  and  lonely  hiding-place, 
(Portentous  sight  I)  the  owlet  Atheism. 
Sailing  on  obscene  wings  athwart  the  noon, 
Drops  his  blue-fringed  lids,  and  holds  them  close, 
And  hooting  at  the  glorious  sun  in  Heaven, 
Cries  out,  "  Where  is  it  7" 

Thankless  too  for  peace, 
(Peace  long  preserved  by  fleets  and  perilous  sea*) 
Secure  from  actual  warfare,  we  have  loved 
To  swell  the  war-whoop,  passionate  fur  war  ! 
Alas !  for  ages  ignorant  of  all 
lis  ghastlier  workings,  (famine  or  blue  plague, 
Battle,  or  siege,  or  flight  through  wintry- snows,) 
We,  this  whole  people,  have  been  clamorous 
For  war  and  bloodshed  ;  animating  sporls. 
The  which  we  pay  for  as  a  thing  to  talk  of, 
Spectators  and  not  combatants  !     Xo  guess 
Anticipate  of  a  wrong  unfell, 
No  speculation  or  contingency, 
However  dim  and  vague,  too  vague  and  dim 
To  yield  a  justifying  cause ;  and  forth, 
(Stufied  out  with  big  preamble,  holy  names. 
And  adjurations  of  the  God  in  Heaven,) 
We  send  our  mandates  lor  the  certain  death 
Of  thousands  and  ten  thousands!     Boys  and  girls. 
And  women,  that  would  groan  to  see  a  cliild 
Pull  ofl'  an  insect's  leg,  all  read  of  war. 


The  best  amusement  for  our  morning-meal ! 

Tiie  poor  wretch,  who  has  learnt  his  only  prayui 

From  curses,  who  kuows  scarcely  words  enough 

To  ask  a  blessing  from  his  Heavenly  Father, 

Becomes  a  fluent  phraseman,  absolute 

And  technical  in  victories  and  defeats, 

And  all  our  dainty  terms  for  fratricide ; 

Terms  which  we  trundle  smoothly  o'er  our  tongu 

Like  mere  abstractions,  empty  sounds  to  which 

We  join  no  feeling  and  attach  no  form  ! 

As  if  the  soldier  died  without  a  wound ; 

As  if  the  fibres  of  this  godlike  frame 

Were  gored  without  a  pang ;  as  if  the  n^retch, 

Who  fell  in  battle,  doing  bloody  deeds. 

Passed  ofi'  to  Heaven,  translated  and  hot  killed ; 

As  though  he  had  no  wife  to  pine  for  him, 

No  God  to  judge  him  !     Therefore,  evil  days 

Are  coming  on  us,  0  my  countrymen ! 

And  what  if  all-avenging  Providence, 

Strong  and  retributive,  should  make  us  know 

The  meaning  of  our  words,  force  us  to  feel 

The  desolation  and  the  agony 

Of  our  fierce  doings ! 

Spare  us  yet  awhile. 
Father  and  God  I  0 !  spare  us  yet  awhile  ! 
Oh  !  let  not  the  English  women  drag  their  flight 
Fainting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  babes. 
Of  the  sweet  infants,  that  but  yesterday 
Laughed  at  the  breast !     Sons,  brothers,  husbands,  aU 
V\&ho  ever  gazed  with  fondness  on  the  forms 
Which  grew  up  with  you  round  the  same  fire-side. 
And  all  who  ever  heard  the  sabbath-bells 
Without  the  infidel's  scorn,  make  yourselves  puie  1 
Stand  forth  !  be  men  I  repel  an  impious  foe. 
Impious  and  false,  a  light  yet  cruel  race, 
Who  laugh  away  all  virtue,  mingling  mirth 
With  deeds  of  murder  ;  and  still  promising 
Freedom,  themselves  too  sensual  to  be  free. 
Poison  life's  amities,  and  cheat  the  heart 



Of  faith  and  quiet  hope,  and  all  that  soothea 
And  all  that  llfU  the  spirit !    Stand  we  forth ; 
Render  thein  back  upon  the  iaaulted  ocean. 
And  let  them  toag  aa  idly  on  its  waves 
As  the  Tile  Bea-weed  which  some  mountain  blast 
Swept  from  our  shores  I     And  oh  I  may  we  return 
Not  with  a  drunken  triumph,  but  with  fear, 
Repenting  of  the  wrongs  with  which  wo  stung 
So  fierce  a  foe  to  frenzy  1 

I  have  told, 
0  Britons  !  0  my  brethren  1  I  have  told 
Most  hitler  truth,  bnt  without  bitlerness. 
Nor  deem  my  zeal  or  factious  or  mistiraeit ; 
For  never  can  true  courage  dwell  with  them, 
Who,  playi[ig  tricks  with  conscience,  dare  not  look 
At  their  own  vices.     We  have  been  too  long 
Dupes  of  a  deep  delusion  !     Some,  belike. 
Groaning  with  restless  enmity,  expect 
All  change  from  change  of  constituted  power  ; 
As  if  a  Government  had  been  a  robe. 
On  which  our  vice  and  wretchedness  were  lagged 
Iiike  fancy-points  and  fringes,  with  the  robe 
Pulled  off  at  pleasure.     Foudly  these  attach 
A  radical  causation  to  a  few 
Vooi  drudges  of  chastising'  Providence, 
Who  borrow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 
From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 
Which  gave  them  birth  and  nursed  them.  Others,  meanwhile, 
Dota  with  a  mad  idolatry  ;  and  all 
Who  will  not  fall  before  their  images, 
And  j-icld  them  worship,  they  arc  enemies 
'Bveii  of  their  country  ! 

Such  have  I  been  deemed — 
Bnt,  O  dear  BriUin  !  0  my  Mother  Isle  ! 
Needs  must  tbou  prove  a  name  most  dear  and  holy 
To  roe,  »  son,  a  t»other,  and  a  friend, 
A  hnibuid,  and  a  father !  who  revere 
All  bond*  of  natural  love,  and  find  them  all 
■m»  TO  F 


Within  the  limits  of  thy  rocky  shores. 

0  native  Britain  !  0  my  Mother  Isle  ! 

How  shouldst  thou  prove  aught  else  but  dear  and  holy 

To  me,  who  from  thy  lakes  and  mountain  hills. 

Thy  clouds,  thy  quiet  dales,  thy  rocks  and  seas, 

Have  drunk  in  all  my  intellectual  life, 

All  sweet  sensations,  all  ennobling  thoughts. 

All  adoration  of  the  God  in  nature. 

All  lovely  and  all  honorable  things, 

Whatever  makes  this  mortal  spirit  feel 

The  joy  and  greatness  of  its  future  being  ? 

There  lives  nor  form  nor  feeling  in  my  soul 

Unborrowed  from  my  country.     O  divine 

And  beauteous  island !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 

And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs, 
Lfoving  the  (xod  that  made  me  ! 

May  my  fears, 
My  filial  fears,  be  vain  !  and  may  the  vaunts 
And  menace  of  the  vengeful  enemy 
Pass  like  the  gust,  that  roared  and  died  way 
In  the  distant  tree  :  which  heard,  and  only  heard 
In  this  low  dell,  bowed  not  the  delicate  grass. 

But  now  the  gentle  dew-fall  sends  abroad 
The  fruit-like  perfume  of  the  golden  furze  : 
The  light  has  lefl  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
Though  still  a  sunny  gleam  lies  beautiful. 
Aslant  the  ivied  beacon.     Now  farewell, 
Farewell,  awhile,  0  soft  and  silent  spot  I 
On  the  green  sheep- track,  up  the  heathy  hill. 
Homeward  I  wind  my  way  ;  and  lo !  recalled 
From  bodings  that  have  well  nigh  wearied  me 
I  find  myself  upon  the  brow,  and  pause 
Startled  !     And  afler  lonely  sojourning 
In  such  a  quiet  and  surrounded  nook, 
This  burst  of  prospect,  here  the  shadowy  main. 
Dim  tinted,  there  the  mighty  majesty 
Of  that  huge  amphitheatre  of  rich 


And  elmy  fieliie,  seems  like  society — 

Convening  with  the  mind,  and  giving  it 

A  liveher  impulse  and  a  dance  of  thought ! 

And  now,  beloved  Stowey  !  I  behold 

Thy  church-tower,  and,  methinks,  fbe  four  huge  ehni 

Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend  ; 

And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 

Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  niy  babe 

And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace  !     With  light 

And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  I  tend. 

Remembering  thee,  0  green  and  silent  dell ! 

And  grateful,  that  by  nature's  quietness 

And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 

la  softened,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 

Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  human  kind. 

Hether  Stowey,      1 
AprU  iStb,  iiaa.  f 



n«  BctHe  a  detolaled  IVact  in  La  Vtndit.    Faudik  tj  duannrtd  Ipng  et 
tke  ground;  to  Arr  min- Fui  and Suuchtek. 

Fam.  Sisters  !  sistere  !  who  sent  you  here  ? 

Slaa.  [to  Firei]  I  will  whisper  it  in  her  ear 

Fire.        No!  no!  no! 
Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell ; 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell. 

No  !  no  1  no  ! 
Myself,  I  named  him  once  below, 
And  all  the  sonls  that  damned  be, 
Leaped  up  at  once  in  anarchy, 
Clapped  their  hands  and  danced  for  glee. 
They  no  longer  heeded  me  ; 
But  laughed  to  hear  Hell's  burning  rafter* 
Unwillingly  re-echo  laughters ! 
No!  no!  no! 

*  Priot«doapi^:!lT. 


Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
Twill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell ! 

Fam.  Whisper  it,  sister !  so  and  so ! 
In  a  dark  hint,  soil  and  slow. 

Slau.  Letters  four  do  form  his  name — 
And  who  sent  you  ? 

Both.  The  same  !  the  same  I 

Slau.  He  came  by  stealth  and  unlocked  my  den. 
And  I  have  drunk  the  blood  since  then 
Of  thrice  three  hundred  thousand  men. 

Both.  Who  bade  you  do  it  ? 

Slau.  The  same !  the  same ! 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

Fam.  Thanks,  sister,  thanks  !  the  men  have  bled, 
Their  wives  and  their  children  faint  for  bread. 
I  stood  in  a  swampy  field  of  battle  ; 
With  bones  and  skulls  I  made  a  rattle. 
To  frighten  the  wolf  and  carrion-crow 
And  the  homeless  dog — but  they  would  not  go, 
So  off  I  flew  ;  for  how  could  I  bear 
To  see  them  gorge  their  dainty  fare  ? 
I  heard  a  groan  and  a  peevish  squall, 
And  through  the  chink  of  a  cottage-wall — 
Han  you  guess  what  I  saw  there  ? 

Both.  Whisper  it,  sister  I  in  our  ear. 

Fam.  A  baby  beat  its  dying  mother  : 
I  had  starved  the  one  and  was  starving  the  other  I 
Both.  Who  bade  you  do't  ? 
Fam.  The  same  !  the  same ! 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  I 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

Fire.  Sisters !  I  from  Ireland  came  I 
Hedge  and  corn-fields  all  on  flame, 
I  triumphed  o'er  the  setting  sun  ! 
And  all  the  while  the  work  was  done, 
On  as  I  strode  with  my  huge  strides, 
I  flung  back  my  head  and  I  held  my  sides. 


It  wag  80  rare  a  piece  of  Tud  i    - 

To  see  the  sweltcrml  cattle  run  •;,=  ,.^     ■ 

Witli  uncouth  gallop  ihcough  the  night, 

ScAred  by  the  red  and  noisy  light ! 

By  the  light  of  his  own  blazing  cot 

'Was  many  a  naked  rebel  shot : 

The  house-Btream  met  the  flame  and  higsad. 

While  CTash  I  fell  in  the  roof,  I  wist, 

On  some  of  those  old  bed-rid  nurses, 

That  deal  in  discontent  and  curses. 

Both.  Who  bade  you  do't  ? 

Fire.  The  same  !  the  same ! 

Iietters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  duo. 

All.  He  let  us  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
How  shall  w-B  yield  him  honor  due  ? 

Fam.  Wisdom  comes  with  lack  of  food. 
I'll  gnaw,  I'll  gnaw  the  multitude, 
Till  the  cup  of  rage  o'erbrim  : 
They  shall  seize  him  and  his  hrood — 

Slan.  They  shall  tear  him  limb  from  limb ' 

Fire.  0  thankless  beldames  and  untrua  ! 
And  is  this  all  that  you  can  do 
For  him,  who  did  so  much  for  you  ? 
Kinely  months  he,  by  my  troth  1 
Hath  richly  catered  for  you  both  ; 
And  in  an  hour  would  you  repay 
An  eight  years'  work? — A^vay  1  awsy  ! 
I  olone  am  faithful  I  I 
Cling  to  him  everlastingly. 


II.    LOVE    POEMS. 

Quns  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  sbto, 

PerU^s  hie  lacrymas,  ct  quod  phAretratus  acuta 

Ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspide  vuIdus. 

Omnia  paulatim  coDSumit  lougior  letas, 

Viveudoque  simul  morimur,  rapimurque  manenda 

Ipse  mihi  ooUatus  euim  non  ille  yidebor: 

Frons  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis,  imago, 

Voxque  aliud  sonat — 

Pectore  nunc  gelido  calidos  miseremur  amantea. 

Jamque  arsisse  pudet     Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 

Mens  horret,  rel^ensque  alium  putat  ista  locutum. 



All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay. 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  I 

She  leanM  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 


And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserahle  Knight ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ; — 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away« 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; — 

His  dying  words — ^but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
31  \  fiilteriag  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  1 

All  impulses  of  soid  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside. 
As  c-onscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 


She  half  incloeed  mo  with  her  iimu, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embraca  , 
And  bending  back  hei  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  mj  face. 

'Twaa  partly  love  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  BO  I  won  my  Genevieve. 
My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


0  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  stem ; 

0  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray  , 
0  leave  the  elder-bloom,  fair  maids  ! 

And  listea  to  my  lay, 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle-bough 
This  morn  around  my  harp  you  twined. 
Because  it  fashioned  mournfully 
Itsi '■■  '• 

And  now  a  tale  of  love  and  woe, 
A  woful  talo  of  love  I  sing ; 
Hark,  gentle  maidens  I  hark,  it  sighs 
And  trembles  on  the  string. 

But  most,  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee  I 
0  come  and  hear  the  viael  wrongs. 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie  !• 

*  Here  fullared  tlie  ■tiniuB,  nrterwards  publiahed  lepai-atelj  uuiler  lh« 
title  "LoTt,"  (aee  this  toL  p.  ISS,)  nad  alter  tbem  came  tie  uther  Ihres 
itsnttT  prioted  above ;  the  whole  rwining  the  iDtroduct[na  to  the  iateoded 
Oai^  Lftdie,  of  which  all  that  ezieta  ia  tc  be  foniid  on  next  page   Latt  KL 


And  now  once  more,  a  tale  of  woe» 
A  woful  tale  of  love  I  nng  ; 
For  thee,  my  Genevieve,  it-sigfas, 
And  trembles  on  the  string. 

\Vhen  last  I  sang  the  cruel  scorn. 
That  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight. 
And  how  he  roamed  the  roountain-woodsi 
Nor  rested  day  or  night ; 

I  promised  thee  a  sister  tale, 
Of  man's  perfidious  cruelty  ; 
Come,  then,  and  hear  what  cruel  wrong 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie. 



Beneath  yon  birch  vrhh.  silver  bark 
And  boughs  so  pendulous  and  fair, 
The  brook  falls  scattered  down  the  rock : 
And  all  is  moss\'  there ! 

And  there  upon  the  moss  she  sits, 
The  Dark  Ladic  in  silent  pain  ; 
The  heavy  tear  is  in  her  eye ; 
And  drops  and  swells  again. 

Three  times  she  sends  her  little  page 
Up  to  the  castled  raountain*s  breast, 
If  he  might  find  the  Knight  that  wean 
The  Grifiin  for  his  crest. 

The  sun  was  sloping  dowL  tne  sky. 
And  she  had  lingered  there  all  day. 
Counting  moments,  dreaming  fears — 
0  wherefore  can  he  stay  ? 

She  hears  a  rustling  o'er  the  brook, 
She  sees  far  off  a  swinging  bough ! 


"  'Tia  He  !  'Tia  my  betrothed  Knigfat ! 
Lord  Falkland,  it  ie  Thou  !" 

bho  springs,  she  clasps  him  Toimd  the  neck, 
She  Bobs  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears, 
Her  kisses  glowing  oa  hU  cheeks 

She  quenches  with  her  tears. 
*  •  *  *  * 

"  My  friends  with  rude  ungentle  worda 
They  scoff  and  bid  me  fly  to  tbee  I 

0  give  me  shelter  In  thy  breast ! 

0  shield  tuid  shelter  me  ! 

"My  Henry,  I  have  given  thee  much, 

1  gave  what  I  can  ne'er  recall, 

I  gave  my  heart,  I  gave  my  peace, 
0  Heaven  I  I  gave  thee  all '." 

The  Knight  made  answer  to  the  Maid, 
While  to  his  heart  he  held  her  hand, 
"  Nine  castles  hath  my  noble  sire. 
None  stateUer  in  the  land. 

"  The  fairest  one  eball  be  my  love's. 
The  fairest  castle  of  the  nine  ! 
Wait  only  till  the  stars  peep  out. 
The  fairest  shall  be  thine  : 

"  Wait  only  till  the  hand  ot  eve 
Hath  wholly  closed  yon  western  bars. 
And  through  the  dark  we  two  will  steal 
Beneath  the  twinkling  stars  !" — 

"  The  dark  ?  the  dark  ?     No  !  not  the  dark  ? 
The  twinkling  stars  ?     How,  Henry  ?     How  ? 
0  God  !  'twas  in  the  eye  of  noon 
He  pledged  his  sacred  vow  ! 

"  And  in  the  eye  of  noon,  my  love, 
Shall  lead  me  from  my  mother's  door 
8weet  boys  and  girls  all  clothed  in  whila 
Strewing  flow'rs  before  : 



But  first  the  nodding  minstrels  go 
With  music  meet  for  lordly  bow'n. 
The  children  next  in  snow-white  Tests, 
Strewing  huds  and  flow'rs  ! 

'*  And  then  my  love  and  I  shall  pace, 
My  jet-black  hair  in  pearly  braids, 
Between  our  comely  bachelors 
And  blushing  bridal  maids.*' 

•  *  *  # 



At  midnight  by  the  stream  I  roved. 
To  forget  the  form  I  loved. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

The  Moon  was  high,  the  moonlight  gleam 

And  the  shadow  of  a  star 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  stream  ; 

But  the  rock  shone  brighter  far, 
The  rock  half  sheltered  from  my  view 
By  pendent  bouglis  of  tressy  yew — 
So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
Gleaming  through  her  sable  hair. 
Image  of  Lewti  I  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  LeA^-ti  is  not  kind. 
I  saw  a  cloud  of  palest  hue, 

Onward  to  the  moon  it  passed  ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  grew, 
AVith  floating  colors  not  a  few, 

Till  it  reached  the  moon  at  last : 
Then  the  cloud  was  wholly  bright, 
AVith  a  rich  and  amber  light ! 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek, 

And  with  sach  joy  I  find  my  Lewti ; 
And  eten  so  my  pale  wan  cheek 

Drtiiks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of  beauty ! 


Nay,  beacheroiu  image  !  leave  my  miod, 
ir  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

The  little  cloud — it  iloaU  away, 

Away  it  goes  ;  away  so  soun  ? 
Alas !  it  has  no  power  to  stay  ; 
Ita  hues  are  dim,  its  hues  are  giay-^ 

Away  it  passes  from  the  moon  t 
How  mourn  fully  it  seems  to  fly. 

Ever  fading  mora  and  more, 
To  joyless  regions  of  tbe  eky — 

And  now  'tis  whiter  than  before ! 
As  white  as  my  poor  cheek  will  be. 

When,  Lewti  !  on  my  couch  I  He, 
A  dying  man  fur  love  of  thee. 
Nay,  treacherouB  image !  leave  my  mind — 
And  yet,  thou  did'st  not  look  unkind. 

I  saw  a  vapor  in  the  eky. 

Thin,  and  white,  and  very  high  ; 
I  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  cloud  : 

Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can  fly 

Now  below  and  now  above, 
}lave  snatched  aloil  tbe  lawny  shroud 

Of  Lady  fair — that  died  for  love. 
For  maids,  as  well  as  youths,  have  perished 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly  cherished. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind — 
For  IrtWti  never  will  be  kind. 

Hush  !  my  heedless  feet  from  under 

Slip  the  crumbling  banks  forever  : 
Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thunder. 

They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 
The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread. 
And  startle  from  their  rccdy  bed, 
0  beauteous  birds  !  methiuks  ye  measure 

Your  movementB  to  pome  heavenly  luno  I 
0  beauteous  birds  I  'tis  such  a  pleasure 

To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon. 


I  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
Fo  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night. 

1  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lie«, 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyei : 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine-bower, 
The  nightingale  sings  o'er  her  head : 

Voice  of  the  night !  had  I  the  power 
That  leafy  labjrrinth  to  thread, 
And  creep,  like  thee,  with  soundless  tread, 
I  then  might  view  her  bosom  white 
Heaving  lovely  to  my  eight, 
As  these  two  swans  together  heave 
On  the  gently  swelling  wave. 

Oh !  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream. 
And  dreamt  that  I  had  died  for  care ; 

All  pale  and  wasted  I  would  seem, 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are  ! 

I'd  die  indeed,  if  I  might  see 

Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  for  me ! 

Soothe,  gentle  image  I  soothe  my  mind  I 

io-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 



Olt    THE    lover's    resolution. 

Tiioouiiii  weeds  and  thorns,  and  matted  underwood 
I  force  my  way  ;  now  climb,  and  now  descend 
O'er  rooks,  or  bare  or  mossy,  with  wild  foot 
Crushing  the  purple  whorts  ;  while  ofl  unseen, 
Hurrying  along  the  drifted  forest-leaves, 
The  scared  snake  rustles.     Onward  still  I  toil 
I  know  not,  ask  not  whither !     A  new  joy, 
Lovely  as  light,  sudden  as  summer  gust, 
And  gladsome  as  the  first-bom  of  the  spring, 
Beckons  me  on,  or  follows  from  behind. 
Playmate,  or  guide !     The  master-passion  quelled, 
I  feel  that  I  am  free.     With  dun-red  bark 


The  fit  trees,  and  the  anfrequent  slendor  oak. 
Forth  from  this  tangle  wild  of  bush  and  brake 
Soar  up,  and  form  a  melancholy  vault 
High  o'ei  me,  murmuring  like  a  distant  sea. 

Here  Wisdom  might  resort,  and  here  RemorM ; 
Here  loo  the  love-lorn  man,  who,  sick  in  soul. 
And  of  this  biuy  human  heart  aweary. 
Worships  the  spirit  of  unconscious  life 
In  tree  or  wild-flower. — Gentle  lunatic  1 
If  so  he  might  not  wholly  cease  to  be, 
He  would  far  rather  not  be  that,  he  is  ; 
But  would  be  something,  that  he  knows  not  of. 
In  wiud«  or  waters,  oi  among  the  rocks  ! 

But  hence,  fond  wretch !  breathe  not  contagion  here, 
No  myrtle-walks  are  these  :  these  are  no  groves 
Where  Love  dare  loiter!     If  in  sullen  mood 
He  should  stray  hither,  the  low  stumps  shall  gore 
His  dainty  feet,  the  brier  and  the  thorn 
Make  his  plumes  haggard.     Like  a  wounded  bird 
Easily  caught,  ensnare  him,  0  ye  Nymphs, 
Ye  Oreads  chaste,  yo  dusky  Dryades  ! 
And  you,  ye  Earth-winds !  you  that  make  at  mom 
The  dew-drops  quiver  on  the  spiders'  weba  I 
You,  0  ye  wingless  Airs  !  that  creep  between 
The  rigid  stems  of  heath  and  bitten  furae. 
Within  whose  scanty  shade,  at  summer-noon, 
The  mother-sheep  hath  worn  a  hollow  bed — 
Ye,  that  now  cool  her  fleece  with  dropless  damp, 
Now  pant  and  murmur  with  her  feeding  lamb. 
Chase,  chase  him,  all  ye  Fays,  and  ellin  Gnomes  ! 
With  prickles  sharper  than  his  darts  bemock 
His  little  Godsbip,  making  him  perforce 
Creep  through  a  thom-bush  on  yon  hedgehog's  back. 

This  is  my  hour  of  triumph  !     I  can  now 
With  my  own  fan  lies  play  tho  merry  fool, 
And  laugh  away  worte  folly,  being  free. 
Here  will  I  seat  myself,  beside  this  old 


Hollow,  and  ireedy  oak,  which  ivy-twine 
Clotnes  as  with  net- work :  here  will  I  couch  my 
Close  by  this  river,  in  this  silent  shade, 
As  safe  and  sacred  from  the  step  of  man 
As  an  invisible  world — unheard,  unseen, 
And  listening  only  to  the  pebbly  brook 
That  murmurs  with  a  dead,  yet  tinkling  sound ; 
Or  to  the  bees,  that  in  the  neighboring  trunk 
Make  honey-hoards.     The  breeze,  that  visits  Die 
"Was  never  Love's  accomplice,  never  raised 
The  tendril  ringlets  from  the  maiden's  brow, 
And  the  blue,  delicate  veins  above  her  cheek ; 
Ne'er  played  the  wanton — never  half  disclosed. 
The  maiden's  snowy  bosom,  scattering  thence 
Eye  poisons  for  some  love-distempered  youth. 
Who  ne'er  henceforth  may  see  an  aspen-grove 
Shiver  in  sunshine,  but  his  feeble  heart 
Shall  flow  away  like  a  dissolving  thing. 

Sweet  breeze  I  thou  only,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Liftest  the  feathers  of  the  robin's  breast. 
That  swells  its  little  breast,  so  full  of  song. 
Singing  above  me,  on  the  mountain-ash. 
And  thou  too,  desert  stream  I  no  pool  of  thine. 
Though  clear  as  lake  in  latest  summer-eve, 
Did  e'er  reflect  the  stately  virgin's  robe. 
The  face,  the  form  divine,  the  downcast  look 
Contemplative  I     Behold  I  her  open  palm 
Presses  her  cheek  and  brow  I  her  elbow  rests 
On  the  bare  branch  of  half-uprooted  tree. 
That  leans  towards  its  mirror  I     W'ho  erewhile 
Had  from  her  countenance  turned,  or  looked  by  stealth 
(For  fear  is  true  love's  cruel  nurse),  he  now 
With  steadfast  gaze  and  unoflending  eye. 
Worships  the  watery  idol,  dreaming  hopes 
Delicious  to  the  soul,  but  fleeting,  vain, 
E'en  as  that  phantom- world  on  which  he  gazed, 
But  not  unheeded  gazed  :  for  see,  ah  !  see. 
The  sportive  t}Tant  with  her  left  hand  plucks 
The  heads  of  tall  flowers  that  behind  her  grow, 


Lychnis,  tnd  willow-herb,  and  fox<glove  belU  : 
And  Buddenty,  as  one  that  toys  with  time, 
Scatleis  them  on  the  pool  I     Then  all  the  charm 
Is  brokea — all  that  pb&D torn- world  so  fair 
Vaaishea,  and  a  thousand  ciiclets  spread, 
And  rach  mis-shape  the  other.     Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth,  who  scarcely  dar'st  lift  up  thine  eyes. 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  !     And  lo  !  he  stays  : 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  formB 
Come  trembling  back,  uoite,  and  n>w  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror  ;  and  behold 
Bach  wild-flower  on  tbe  marge  inverted  there, 
And  there  the  hair-uprootcd  tree — but  where, 
0  where  the  virgin's  snowy  arm,  that  leaned 
On  its  bare  branch  ?     He  turns,  and  she  is  gone  ! 
Homeward  she  steals  through  many  a  woodland  mase 
Which  he  shall  seek  in  vain.     Ill-fated  youth ! 
Go,  day  by  day,  and  waste  thy  manly  prime 
In  mad  love-yearning  by  the  vacant  brook. 
Till  sickly  thoughts  bewitch  thine  eyes,  and  thou 
Behold'st  her  shadow  still  abiding  there. 
The  Naiad  of  the  mirror  1 

Not  to  thee, 

0  wild  and  desert  stream  !  belongs  this  tale  . 
Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou — the  crowded  firs 
Spire  from  thy  shores,  and  stretch  acrosa  thy  bed, 
Making  thee  doleful  as  a  cavern-well : 

Save  when  the  shy  king-flshera  build  their  nest 

On  thy  steep  banks,  no  loves  hast  thou,  wild  stream ! 

This  be  my  chosen  haunt — emancipate 
From  passion's  dreams,  a  freeman,  and  alon«, 

1  rise  and  trace  its  devious  course.     0  lead, 
Lead  me  to  deeper  shades  and  lonelier  glooms. 
Lo !  stealing  IhrDugh  the  canopy  of  firs. 
How  fair  the  sunshine  spots  that  mossy  rock, 
Isle  of  the  river,  whose  disparted  waves 

Dart  offosander  with  an  angry  sound. 


How  Boon  to  re-unite  I     And  see  !  tbey  meet. 

Each  in  the  other  lost  and  found  :  and  see 

Place] ess,  as  spirits,  one  soft  water-sun 

Throbbing  within  them,  heart  at  ouoe  and  eye ! 

With  its  soil  neighborhood  of  fikny  clouds. 

The  stains  and  shadings  of  forgotten  tears, 

Dimness  o'erswum  with  lustre  !     Such  the  hour 

Of  deep  enjoyment,  following  love's  brief  feuds ; 

And  hark,  the  noise  of  a  near  waterfall ! 

I  pass  forth  into  light — I  find  myself 

Beneath  a  weeping  birch  (most  beautiful 

Of  forest-trees,  the  lady  of  the  woods). 

Hard  by  the  brink  of  a  tall  weedy  rock 

That  overbrows  the  cataract.     How  bursts 

The  landscape  on  my  sight !     Two  crescent  hills 

Fold  in  behind  each  other,  and  so  make 

A  circular  vale,  and  land-locked,  as  might  seem, 

With  brook  and  bridge,  and  gray-stone  cottages, 

Half  hid  by  rocks  and  fruit-trees.     At  my  feet, 

The  whortle-berries  are  bedewed  with  spray, 

Dashed  upwards  by  the  furious  waterfall. 

How  solemnly  the  pendent  ivy-mass 

Swings  in  its  winnow  ;  all  the  air  is  calm. 

The  smoke  from  cottage-chimneys,  tinged  with  light, 

Eises  in  columns  ;  from  this  house  alone, 

Close  by  the  waterfall,  the  column  slants, 

And  feels  its  ceaseless  breeze.     But  what  is  this  ? 

That  cottage,  with  its  slanting  chimney-smoke, 

And  close  beside  its  porch  a  sleeping  child, 

His  dear  head  pillowed  on  a  sleeping  dog — 

One  arm  between  its  fore-legs,  and  the  hand 

Holds  loosely  its  small  handful  of  wild-flowers, 

Unfilletted,  and  of  unequal  lengths. 

A  curious  picture,  with  a  master's  haste 

Sketched  on  a  strip  of  pinky-silver  skin, 

Peeled  from  the  birched  bark  !     Divinest  maid ! 

Yon  bark  her  canvass,  and  those  purple  berries 

Her  pencil !     See,  the  juice  is  scarcely  dried 

On  the  fine  skin !     She  has  been  newly  here  ; 

And  lo  !  yon  patch  of  heath  has  bean  her  couch — 


The  pressure  still  remains  !     0  blessed  couch  1 

For  this  mayst  thou  flower  early,  and  the  sun, 

Slanting  at  eve,  rest  bright,  and  linger  long 

Upon  thy  purple  bells  !     0  Isabel ! 

Daughter  of  genius  !  stateliest  of  our  maids  ! 

More  beautiful  than  whom  Alcseus  wooed 

The  Lesbian  woman  of  immortal  song  ! 

0  child  of  genius  !  stately,  beautiful. 

And  full  of  love  to  all,  save  only  me, 

And  not  ungentle  e'en  to  me  !     My  heart, 

"Why  beats  it  thus  ?     Through  yonder  coppice-wood 

Needs  must  the  pathway  turn,  that  leads  straightway 

On  to  her  father's  house.     She  is  alone  ! 

The  night  draws  on — such  ways  are  hard  to  hit — 

And  fit  it  is  I  should  restore  this  sketch, 

Dropt  unawares  no  doubt.     Why  should  I  yearn 

To  keep  the  relique  ?  'twill  but  idly  feed 

The  passion  that  consumes  me.     Let  me  haste ' 

The  picture  in  my  hand  which  she  has  left  : 

She  can  not  blame  me  that  I  followed  her  1 

And  I  may  be  her  guide  the  long  wood  through. 



Sandoval  You  loved  the  daughter  of  Don  Manrique? 

JEarl  Henry.  Loved  ? 

Sandoval.  Did  you  not  say  you  wooed  her  ? 

Earl  Henry,  Once  I  loved 

Her  whom  I  dared  not  woo  ! 

Sandoval,  And  wooed,  perchance. 

One  whom  you  loved  not ! 

Earl  Henry.  Oh  I  I  were  most  base, 

Not  loving  Oropeza.     True,  I  wooed  her, 
Hoping  to  heal  a  deeper  wound  ;  but  she 
Met  my  advances  with  impassioned  pride. 
That  kindled  love  with  love.     And  when  her  sire, 
Who  in  his  dream  of  hope  already  grasped 
The  golden  circlet  in  his  hand,  rejected 


My  suit  with  insuit,  and  in  memory 

or  ancient  feuds  poured  curses  on  my  head. 

Her  blessings  overtook  and  baffled  them  ! 

But  thou  art  stern,  and  with  unkindly  countenance 
Art  inly  reasoning  whilst  thou  listenest  to  me. 

Sandoval.  Anxiously,  Henry  !  reasoning  auxionaly. 
But  Oropeza — 

JEarl  Henry.  Blessings  gather  round  her  ! 
Within  this  wood  there  winds  a  secret  passage. 
Beneath  the  walls,  which  opens  out  at  length 
Into  the  gloomiest  covert  of  the  garden. — 
The  night  ere  my  departure  to  the  army, 
She,  nothing  trembling,  led  me  through  that  gloora, 
And  to  that  covert  by  a  silent  stream, 
Which,  with  one  star  reflected  near  its  marge, 
Was  the  sole  object  visible  around  me. 
No  leaflet  stirred  ;  the  air  was  almost  sultry  ; 
So  deep,  so  dark,  so  close,  the  umbrage  o'er  us  ! 
No  leaflet  stirred  ; — yet  pleasure  hung  upon 
The  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  balmy  night-air. 
A  little  further  on  an  arbor  stood, 
Fragrant  with  flowering  trees — 1  well  remember 
What  an  uncertain  glimmer  in  the  darkness 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  made — thither  she  led  me, 
To  that  sweet  bower  I     Then  Oropeza  trembled — 
1  heard  her  heart  beat — if  'twere  not  my  own. 

Sandoval.  A  rude  and  scaring  note,  my  friend. 

Earl  Henry.  Oh  !  no  \ 

I  have  small  memory  of  aught  but  pleasure. 
The  inquietudes  of  fear,  like  lesser  streams 
Still  flowing,  still  were  lost  in  those  of  love  : 
So  love  grew  mightier  from  the  fear,  and  Nature, 
Fleeing  from  pain,  sheltered  herself  in  joy. 
The  stars  above  our  heads  were  dim  and  steady, 
Like  eyes  sufliised  with  rapture. — Life  was  in  us  : 
We  were  all  life,  each  atom  of  our  frames 
A  living  soul — I  vowed  to  die  for  her  : 
With  the  faint  voice  of  one  who,  ha\'ing  spoken, 
B elapses  into  blessedness,  I  vowed  it  : 
That  solemn  vow,  a  whisper  scarcely  heard, 


r  breathed  against  a  lady's  ear. 
Oh  [  there  is  joy  above  ^e  name  of  pleasure. 
Deep  self-poasessioD,  an  intense  repose. 

Sandoval  [with  a  sarcastic  smile].  No  other  than  as  eastern 
sages  paint, 
The  God,  who  floats  upon  a  lotos  leaf, 
Droania  for  a  thousand  ages ;  then  awaking. 
Creates  a  world,  and  smiling  at  the  bubble. 
Belapses  into  bliss. 

Earl  Henry.         Ah  !  was  that  bliss 
Feared  as  an  alien,  and  too  vast  for  man  ! 
For  suddenly,  impatient  of  its  silence, 
Did  Oropeza,  starting,  grasp  my  forehead. 
I  caught  her  arms  ;  the  veins  were  swelling  on  them. 
Through  the  dark  bower  she  sent  a  hollow  voice  ; — 
"  Oh  i  what  if  all  betray  me  ?  what  if  thou?" 
I  swore,  and  with  an  inward  thought  that  seemed 
The  purpose  and  the  sulHtance  of  my  being, 
I  swore  to  her,  that  were  she  red  with  guilt, 
I  would  exchange  my  unblenched  stale  with  hers, — 
Friend  !  by  that  winding  passage,  to  that  bower 
I  now  will  go^all  objects  there  will  teach  me 
Unwavering  love,  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Go,  Sandoval !  1  am  prepared  to  meet  her — 
Say  nothing  of  me — I  myself  will  seek  her — 
Nay,  leave  me,  friend  !     I  can  not  bear  the  torment 
And  keen  inquiry  of  that  scanning  eye. — 

[Earl  Henry  relires  into  the  wood  ) 

Sandoval  \alone\.  0  Henry  !    always  striv'st  thou  to  be  great 
By  thine  own  act — yet  art  thou  never  great 
But  by  the  inspiration  of  great  passion. 
The  whirl-blast  comes,  the  desert-sands  rise  up 
And  shape  themselves  :  from  earth  to  heaven  they  stand. 
As  though  they  were  the  pillars  of  a  temple. 
Built  by  Omnipotence  in  its  own  honor  ! 
But  the  blast  pauses,  and  their  shaping  spirit 
Is  fled  :  the  mighty  columns  were  but  sand. 
And  lazy  uwket  trail  o'er  the  level  ruins  ! 


TO  AN  unfortunate;  woman, 


Mtrtle-leaf,  that,  ill  besped, 

Finest  in  the  gladsome  ray, 
Soiled  beneath  the  common  tread, 

Far  from  thy  protecting  spray  ! 

When  the  partridge  o'er  the  sheaf 

Whirred  along  the  yellow  vale, 
Sad  I  saw  thee,  heedless  leaf ! 

J>ove  the  daUiance  of  the  gale. 

Lightly  didst  thou,  foolish  thing  ! 

Heave  and  flutter  to  his  sighs, 
While  the  flatterer,  on  his  wing, 

Wooed  and  whispered  thee  to  rise. 

Gaily  from  thy  mother-stalk 

Wert  thou  danced  and  wafted  high — 

Soon  on  this  unsheltered  walk 
Flung  to  fade,  to  rot  and  die. 


Maiden,  that  with  sullen  brow 
Sitt'st  behind  those  virgins  gay, 

Like  a  scorched  and  mildewed  bough, 
Leafless  'mid  the  blooms  of  May ! 

liim  who  lured  thee  and  forsook. 
Oft  I  watched  with  angry  gaze, 

Fearful  saw  his  pleading  look, 
Anxious  heard  his  fervid  phrase. 

Soft  the  glances  of  the  youth, 

Soft  his  speeoJi,  and  soft  his  sigh  ; 

But  no  sound  like  simple  truth, 
But  no  true  love  in  his  eye. 


Loathing  thy  polluted  lot, 

Uie  thee,  KudeQ,  hie  thee  henoe  ! 
Seek  thy  weeping  Mother'i  cot, 

With  a  wiser  innocence. 

Thou  hast  known  deceit  and  folly, 
Thou  hast  felt  that  vice  is  woo  : 

With  a  musing  melancholy 
Inly  armed,  go,  Uaidea  1  go. 

Uother  sage  of  self-dominion, 
Firm  thy  steps,  0  Melancholy  ! 

The  strongest  plume  in  wisdom's  pinion 
Is  the  memory  of  past  folly. 

Mute  the  sky-laik  and  forlorn, 

While  she  moults  the  firstling  plumes. 
That  had  skimmed  the  tender  corn. 

Or  the  beanfield'a  odorous  blooms. 

Soon  with  lenovated  wing 
Shall  she  dare  a  loftier  flight, 

Upward  to  the  day-star  spring, 
And  embathe  in  heavenly  light. 


Nor  cold,  nor  stern,  my  soul !  yet  I  detest 

These  scented  rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng, 

Heaves  the  proad  harlot  her  distended  breast 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 

These  feel  not  Music's  genuine  power,  nor  deign 
To  melt  at  Nature's  passion- warbled  plaint ; 

fiutwhen  the  long-breathed  singer's  uptrilled  strain 
Bursts  in  &  squall — they  gape  for  wonderment. 

Hark  !  the  deep  buzz  of  vanity  and  hate  I 
Scornful,  yet  envious,  with  self-torturing  sneer 

My  lady  eyea  some  maid  of  humbler  state, 
While  the  pert  captain,  or  the  primmer  priest, 
Pnttle*  acoordaut  scandal  ia  her  ear. 


0  give  me,  from  this  heartless  scene  released, 
To  hear  our  old  musician,  Uind  and  gray, 

(Whom  stretching  from  my  nurse's  arms  I  kissed,) 
His  Scottish  tunes  and  warlike  marches  play. 

By  moonshine,  on  the  halmy  summer-night, 
The  while  I  dance  amid  the  tedded  hay 

With  merry  maids,  whose  ringlets  toss  in  light. 

Or  lies  the  purple  evening  on  the  hay 
Of  the  calm  glossy  lake,  0  let  me  hide 

Unheard,  unseen,  behind  the  alder-trees. 
For  round  their  roots  the  fisher*s  boat  is  tied. 

On  whose  trim  seat  doth  Edmund  stretch  at  ease. 
And  while  the  lazy  boat  sways  to  and  fro. 

Breathes  in  his  flute  sad  airs,  so  wild  and  slow, 
That  his  own  cheek  is  wet  with  quiet  tears. 

But  0,  dear  Anne  !  when  midnight  wind  careers. 
And  the  gust  pelting  on  the  out-house  shed 

Makes  the  cock  shrilly  on  the  rain-storm  crow, 

To  hear  thee  sing  some  ballad  full  of  woe. 
Ballad  of  shipwrecked  sailor  floating  dead, 

AMiom  his  own  true-love  buried  in  the  sands  ! 
Thee,  gentle  woman,  for  thy  voice  re-measures 
Whatever  tones  and  melancholy  pleasures 

The  things  of  Nature  utter  ;  birds  or  trees 
Or  moan  of  ocean  gale  in  weedy  caves. 
Or  where  the  stifl*  grass  mid  the  heath-plant  waTea. 

Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeze. 


The  tedded  hay,  the  flrst  fruits  of  the  soil, 
The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  fleld. 
Show  summer  gone,  ere  come.     The  foxglove  tall 
Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust, 
Or  when  it  bends  beneath  the  upspringing  lark, 
Or  mountain-finch  alighting.     And  the  rose 
(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love) 
Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years, 



The  thorns  remainiog,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 

Nor  cau  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 

By  rivulet,  or  spring,  or  wet  road-side, 

That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 

Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  sweet  Forget-me-not  1* 

So  will  not  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 

With  delicate  fingers  on  the  suow-while  silk 

Has  worked,  {the  flowers  which  most  she  knew  I  lovi  d,) 

And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 

In  the  cool  morning  twilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyous  reslleseneBs, 
tSofUy  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  lo  the  woodbine  bower, 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze. 
Over  their  dim  fast-moving  shadows  hung, 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  the  smooth,  scarcely  moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  owned  btr  love, 
And  let  me  kiss  my  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sata  and  stretched 
The  silk  upon  the  frame,  and  worked  her  name 
Between  the  Uoss-Rose  and  Forget-me-not — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair  ! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  her  smile,  her  look, 
Her  voice,  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  lo  steal  away  and  weep.) 
Nor  yet  the  entrancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  returned. 
She  would  resign  one  half  of  that  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine  ! 

*  Odc  of  the  □ames  (sod  meriting  to  b«  the  only  one)  of  the  MymolUScor- 
piaidei  PalHitrit,  ■  flower  from  six  to  twelve  inches  liigh,  with  blue  b1c«- 
■oin  and  bright  yellotr  eje.  It  btu  the  same  name  over  the  whole  Empire 
ufQerniMij  {VergiumrinnUhl),  aad,  I  believe,  in  Deumsrk  and  Swedeu. 

VOL.    VH.  (J 



WITH   falconer's   "  SHIPWKECK." 

Ah  !  not  by  Cam  or  Isis,  famous  streams 
Li  arched  groves,  the  youthful  poet's  choice  ; 

Nor  while  half-listening,  mid  delicious  dreams. 
To  harp  and  song  from  lady's  hand  and  voice  ; 

Nor  yet  while  gazing  in  sublimer  mood 

On  cliff,  or  cataract,  in  Alpine  dell ; 
Nor  in  dim  cave  with  bladdery  sea- weed  strewed. 

Framing  wild  fancies  to  the  ocean's  swell ; 

Our  sea-bard  sang  this  song  !  which  still  he  sings, 
And  sings  for  thee,  sweet  friend  !     Hark,  Pity,  haik ! 

Now  mouQts,  now  totters  on  the  tempest's  wings. 
Now  groans,  and  shivers,  the  replunging  bark  ! 

"  Cling  to  the  shrouds  !"     In  vain  !     The  breakers  roar- 
Death  shrieks !     With  two  alone  of  all  his  clan 

Forlorn  the  poet  paced  the  Grecian  shore, 
No  classic  roaincr,  but  a  shipwrecked  man ! 

Say  then,  what  muse  inspired  these  genial  strains 

And  lit  his  spirit  to  so  bright  a  flame  ? 
The  elevating  thought  of  suffered  pains. 

Which  gentle  hearts  shall  mourn  ;  but  chief,  the  name 

Of  gratitude !  remembrances  of  friend, 

Or  absent  or  no  more  !  shades  of  the  Past, 

Which  Love  makes  substance  !     Hence  to  thee  I  send, 
0  dear  as  long  as  life  and  memory  last ! 

I  send  with  deep  regards  of  heart  and  head, 

Sweet  maid,  for  friendship  formed !  this  work  to  ♦hec  ! 

And  thou,  the  while  thou  canst  not  choose  but  shed 
A  tear  for  Falconer,  wilt  remember  me. 


ON    HEfi    BECOVEBT    FBOH    A    FEVEft. 

Whv  need  1  say,  Louisa  dear  I 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here, 

A  lovely  convalescent ; 
BJsen  fioiQ  the  bed  of  pain  and  lear. 

And  feveiish  heat  iacessaat. 

The  sunny  showen,  the  doppled  sky 
The  little  birds  that  warble  high, 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing. 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing. 

Believe  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay. 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray  : 

You  made  us  grow  devouter  ! 
Bach  eye  looked  up  and  seemed  to  say. 

How  cBtt  we  do  without  her? 
Besides,  what  vexed  us  worse,  we  knew. 
They  have  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  goi'ig  I 
This  World  has  angels  all  too  few. 

And  Heaven  is  overflowiug  ! 


If  I  had  hut  two  little  wings, 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 
To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear  ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things. 
And  I  stay  here. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly  : 

I'm  always  ivith  you  in  my  bleep  ! 
Th«  world  is  aJl  one's  own. 
Bat  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 


Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids  : 
So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day  : 
For  though  my  sleep  be  gone, 
Yet  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lida, 
And  still  dreams  on. 


WRITTEN    IN    G  En  MA  NY. 

*Tis  sweet  to  him,  who  all  the  week 
Through  city-crowds  must  push  his  way, 

To  stroll  alone  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath-day. 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  summer  bower, 

Sincere,  affectionate  and  gay. 
One's  own  dear  children  feasting  round, 

To  celebrate  one's  marriage-day. 

But  what  is  all,  to  his  delight, 

Who  having  long  been  doomed  to  roam, 

Throws  ofi'the  bundle  from  his  back, 
Before  the  door  of  his  own  home  ? 

Home-sickness  is  a  wasting  pang  ; 

This  feel  I  hourly  more  and  more  : 
There's  healing  only  in  thy  wings, 

Thou  Breeze  that  play'st  on  Albion's  shore ! 


Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?     The  sparrow,  the  dove, 

The  linnet  and  thrush  say,  "  I  love  and  I  love  I" 

In  the  winter  they're  silent — the  wind  is  so  strong  : 

What  it  says,  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 

But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm  weatliw. 

And  singing,  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 

But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 

The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above. 

That  he  sings,  and  he  sings ;  and  forever  sings  he^ 

**  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me  I" 



Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  1  lay, 
fiod  grant  toe  grace  my  prayers  to  say : 
0  God  !  preserve  my  molhcr  dear 
In  strength  and  health  for  many  a  year ; 
And,  0 !  preserve  my  father  loo, 
And  may  I  pay  him  reverence  due  ; 
And  may  I  my  best  thoughts  employ 
To  be  my  parents'  hope  and  joy  ; 
And,  0  !  pTeserve  my  brothers  both 
From  evil  doings  and  from  sloth, 
And  may  we  always  love  each  other, 
Our  friends,  our  father,  and  our  mother  '. 
And  still,  0  Lord,  to  me  impart, 
An  innocent  and  grateful  heart, 
That  aAer  my  last  sleep  I  may 
Awake  to  thy  eternal  day  1 



Sad  lot,  to  have  no  hope  !     Though  lowly  kneelinjt 

He  fain  would  frame  a  prayer  within  hia  breast. 

Would  fain  entreat  for  some  sweet  breath  of  healing, 

That  his  sick  body  might  have  case  and  rest ; 

He  strove  in  vain  !  the  dull  sighs  from  his  chest 

Against  his  will  the  stifling  load  revealing, 

Though  Nature  forced  ;  though  like  some  captive  gnett. 

Some  royal  prisoner  at  his  conqueror's  feast, 

An  alien's  restless  mood  but  half  concealing, 

The  sternness  on  bis  gentle  brow  confessed, 

Sickness  within  and  miserable  feeling  : 

Though  obscure  pangs  made  curses  of  his  dreams, 

And  dreaded  sleep,  each  night  repelled  in  vain. 

Each  night  was  scattered  by  its  own  loud  screams : 

Yet  never  could  his  heart  command,  though  faia. 

One  deep  full  wish  to  be  no  more  in  pain, 


That  Hope,  which  was  his  inward  bhss  and  boast. 
Which  waned  and  died,  yet  ever  near  him  stood. 
Though  changed  in  nature,  wander  where  be  would— 
For  Love's  despair  is  but  Hope's  pining  ghost ! 
For  this  one  hope  he  makes  his  hourly  moan, 
He  wishes  and  can  wish  for  this  alone  ! 
Pierced,  as  with  light  from  Heaven,  before  its  gleams 
(So  the  love-stricken  visionary  deems) 
Disease  would  vanish,  like  a  summer  shower, 
Whose  dews  fling  sunshine  from  the  noontide  bower  I 
Or  let  it  stay  !  yet  this  one  Hope  should  give 
Such  strength  that  he  would  bless  his  pains  and  live 


Oft,  oft  methinks,  the  while  with  Thee 
I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 
And  dedicated  name,  I  hear 

A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in  that  very  name  of  Wife  I 

A  pulse  of  love,  that  ne'er  can  sleep  ! 

A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 

With  happiness  beyond  desert. 
That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep  ! 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 

And  unal arming  turbulence 

Of  transient  joys  that  ask  no  sting 
From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying  ; 
But  born  beneath  Love's  brooding  wing 

And  into  tenderness  soon  dying. 

Wheel  out  their  giddy  moment,  then 
Resign  the  soul  to  love  again  ; — 

A  more  precipitated  vein, 

Of  notes,  that  eddy  in  the  flow 

Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go. 

And  leave  their  sweeter  understrain 
Its  own  sweet  self — a  love  of  Thee 
That  seems,  yet  can  not  greater  be  ! 


How  warm  this  woodland  wild  Recess  I 
Love  surety  bath  been  breatbing  bere ; 
And  this  sweet  bed  of  heatb,  my  dear 

Swells  up,  then  sinks  with  faiut  caress, 
As  if  to  have  you  yet  more  near. 

Eight  springs  have  flown,  since  last  I  Uy 
On  seaward  Q,uant[>ck'a  heatby  hills, 
Where  quiet  sounds  from  hidden  rills 

Float  bere  and  there,  like  things  astray, 
And  high  o'er  head  the  sky-lark  sbrilla. 

No  voice  as  yet  had  made  the  air 
Be  music  with  your  name  ;  yet  why 
That  asking  look  ?  that  yearning  sigh  ! 

That  sense  of  promise  everywhere  i 
Beloved  !  flow  your  spirit  by  ? 

As  when  a  mother  doth  explore 

The  rose-mark  on  her  long  lost  child, 
I  met,  I  loved  you,  maiden  mild  I 

As  whom  I  long  had  loved  before— 
So  deeply,  had  1  been  beguiled 

Yon  stood  before  me  like  a  thought. 

A  dream  remembered  in  a  dream. 

But  when  those  meek  eyes  first  did  seei 
To  tell  me,  Lovo  within  you  wrought — 

0  (rreta,  dear  domestic  stream  ! 

Has  not,  since  then.  Love's  prompture  deep 
Has  not  Love's  whisper  evermore 


Been  ceaseless  as  thy  gentle  roar  ? 
Sole  voice,  when  other  voices  deep, 
Dear  under-song  in  clamor's  hour. 




God  be  with  thee,  gladsome  ocean  ! 

How  gladly  greet  I  thee  once  more  I 
Ships  and  waves,  and  ceaseless  motion. 

And  men  rejoicing  on  thy  shore. 

Dissuading  spake  the  mild  physician, 

"  Those  briny  waves  for  thee  are  death  !" 

But  my  soul  fulfilled  her  mission, 

And  lo  I  I  breathe  untroubled  breath  ! 

Fashion's  pining  sous  and  daughters. 
That  Sfck  the  crowd  they  seem  to  fly, 

Trembling  they  approach  thy  waters  ; 
And  what  cares  Nature,  if  they  die  ? 

Me  a  thousand  hopes  and  pleasures, 

A  thousand  recollections  bland, 
Thoughts  sublime,  and  stately  measures. 

Revisit  on  thy  echoing  strand  : 

Dreams,  (the  soul  herself  forsaking,) 

Tearful  raptures,  boyish  mirth  ; 
Silent  adorations,  making 

A  blessed  shadow  of  this  Earth  ! 

0  yc  hopes,  that  stir  within  me, 

Health  comes  with  you  from  above  1 
God  is  with  me,  God  is  in  me  I 

I  can  not  die,  if  Life  be  Love. 




Tka,  he  (leaerveB  to  find  himself  deceived, 
^VIjo  Be«k>  B  heart  in  the  until  in  king  ilmi. 
Like  thadows  od  a  itreuni,  the  furiim  of  life 
Iiiipresa  their  cboractera  uii  the  Bmooth  fureliead: 
Nniiij;ht  einks  iuto  the  bueum's  gilent  depth. 
(Jiiiek  a  'nsibitit]''  of  pnin  and  pleasure 
M'lVM  the  light  fluids  liglittv  ;  but  ui>  mhiI 
Woriueth  the  inner  frame.  Schilleb. 



Beiide*  the  Riven,  Arve  and  ArTeiron.  which  have  their  aourcet  in  tlic 
£>c>t  of  Uunt  Ulnnc,  Eve  coDipicuoua  tnrrents  rush  duwn  its  aides ;  and  with- 
in B  fev  paces  iif  the  Glaciers,  the  Oentiana  Uajar  growa  in  imnieoae  num- 
bers iritb  its  "  flowers  of  loveliest  blue." 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  moming-atar 
In  his  steep  coune  ?      So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head.'O  sovran  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  aud  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  moat  awful  Form  ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !  Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass:  methinks  thou  pierceat  it, 
Ab  with  a  wed^ !     But  when  I  look  again. 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  hftbiUtion  from  eternity  I 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

iJidst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayet 

1  wonhiped  the  Invisible  alone. 


Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thooghtp 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy  : 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy !  Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !  Awake,  my  Heart,  awake  I 
Green  vales  and  icy  clifis,  all  join  my  Hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  Yale  ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  clirnb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  :  wake,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise  I 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth  ? 
"Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
AVho  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  YOU,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  Rocks, 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came,) 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  I  }  j  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
Ami  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  1 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 


Who  made  you  glorious  as  ihe  gates  of  Heaven 
Benestli  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Wlio  badu  the  sim 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  liviug  flowers 
or  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  i — 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  ahout  of  nations, 
Answer  I  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  (lod  ! 
God !  sing  ye  reeadow-Btreama  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  ioft  and  soul-like  sounds  ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  you  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder.  God  1 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  iirost ! 
Ye  wild  goata  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  clement ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Uoiint !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peakii 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Inta  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  slupendoua  Mountain  1  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  sufliised  with  tear*. 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 
To  nse  before  me— Rise,  0  ever  rise. 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  diead  ambassailor  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Bartb,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 





I  STCOD  on  Brocken's*  sovran  height,  and  8aw 

Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over  hills, 

A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 

By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 

Downward  I  dragged  through  fir  groves  evermore. 

Where  bright  green  moss  heaves  in  sepulchral  forms 

Speckled  with  sunshine  ;  ani,  but  seldom  heard. 

The  sweet  bird's  song  became  a  hollow  sound ; 

And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly, 

Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 

From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall, 

And  the  brook's  chatter  ;  'mid  whose  islet  stones 

The  dingy  kidliug  with  its  tinkling  bell 

Leaped  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 

Sat.  his  white  beard  slow  waving.     I  moved  on 

In  low  and  languid  mood  if  for  I  had  found 

That  outward  forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 

Their  finer  influence  from  the  Life  within  ; — 

Fair  ciphers  else  :  fair,  but  of  import  vague 

Or  unconcerning,  where  the  heart  not  finds 

History  or  prophecy  of  friend,  or  child, 

Or  gentle  maid,  our  first  and  early  love, 

Or  fatiier,  or  the  venerable  name 

Of  our  adored  country  I     0  thou  Q,ueen, 

Thou  delegated  Deity  of  Earth, 

0  dear,  dear  England  !  how  my  longing  eye 

Turned  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady  clouds 

Thy  sands  and  high  white  clifls  I 

*  The  highest  mouotaio  in  the  Uortz,  and  indeed  in  North  G«rnuuiy 

f  When  I  have  gazed 

From  8«)mc  liigh  eminence  on  goodly  vales, 

And  ct)t8  and  villages  embowered  below. 

The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 

Amid  the  scenes  so  (air,  nor  one  small  spot 

Where  my  tired  mind  might  rest,  and  call  it  home. 

Souihev'M  H^mn  to  the  PenBin 


My  native  Land ! 
Filled  with  tlie  tbougbt  of  thee  this  heart  was  proud, 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears  :  that  all  the  view 
From  sovran  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  bills, 
Flnated  away,  like  a  departing  dream, 
Fcuble  and  dim  !  Stranger,  these  impulses 
Blame  thou  not  lightly  ;  nor  will  I  proCune, 
With  hasty  judgment  or  injurious  doubt, 
That  man's  sublimer  spir  t,  who  can  feci 
That  God  is  everywhere  I  the  Gwl  who  framed 
Mankind  lo  be  one  mighty  family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  World  our  Home. 


Sweet  Flower  I  that  peeping  from  lliy  russet  stem 

UtiroEdest  timidly,  (for  in  «trange  sort 

This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teulh-chalecring  Month 

Hath  borrowed  Zephyr's  voine,  and  gazed  ujion  thee 

With  blue  voluptuous  eye)  alas,  poor  Flower ! 

The«e  are  but  ftalteries  of  the  faithless  yetr. 

Perchance,  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave. 

E'en  now  the  keen  North-East  is  on  itsv-oy. 

Flower  that  must  perish  !  sliall  I  liken  thee 

To  some  sweet  girl  of  too  too  rapid  growth 

Kipped  by  consumption  mid  untimely  ch:iTiES  ? 

Of  to  Bristowa's  bard,*  the  wondrous  boy  ! 

An  amaranth,  which  Earth  scarce  seemeil  lo  own, 

Till  disappointment  came,  and  peltitig  wrcu^ 

Beat  it  to  Earth  1  orwilh  indignant  grief 

Khali  I  compare  thco  to  poor  Poland's  hope. 

Bright  flower  of  Hope  killed  iu  the  opening  bnd? 

Farewell,  sweet  blossom  1  belter  fate  be  ihike 

And  mock  my  boding  I  Dim  similitudes 

Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 

P'rom  anxious  self,  Life's  cruel  task-master  ! 

And  the  waTCt  wooings  of  this  sunny  day 


Tremble  along  my  irame,  and  harmonize 
The  attempered  organ,  that  even  saddest  thooghts 
Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tunes 
Flayed  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 



My  pensive  Sara  !  thy  soil  cheek  reclined 
Thus  on  mine  arm,  most  soothing  sweet  it  is 
To  sit  beside  our  cot,  our  cot  o'ergrown 
'  '   "With  white-flowered  jasmin,  and  the  broad-leaved  myrtlei 
(Meet  emblems  they  of  Innocence  and  Love !) 
And  watch  the  clouds,  that  late  were  rich  with  light. 
Slow  saddening  round,  and  mark  the  star  of  eve 
Serenely  brilliant  (such  should  wisdom  be) 
Shine  opposite  !  How  exquisite  the  scents 
Snatched  from  von  bean-field  !  and  the  world  so  hushed 
The  stilly  munnur  of  the  distant  sea 
Tells  us  of  silence. 

And  that  simplest  lute, 
Placed  length-ways  in  the  clasping  casement,  hark! 
How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caressed. 
Like  some  coy  maid  half  yielding  to  her  lover. 
It  pours  such  sweet  upbraiding,  as  must  needs 
Tempt  to  repeat  the  wrong  I     And  now,  its  strings 
Boldlier  swept,  the  long  sequacious  notes 
Over  delicious  surges  sink  and  rise. 
Such  a  soft  floating  witchery  of  sound 
As  twilight  Elfins  make,  when  they  at  eve 
Voyage  on  gentle  gales  from  Fairy-Land, 
Where  Melodies  round  honey-dropping  flowers, 
Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  Paradise, 
Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  untamed  wing ! 
0  the  one  life  within  us  and  abroad, 
AVhich  meets  all  motion  and  becomes  its  soul, 
A  light  in  sound,  a  sound-like  power  in  light 
Rh}'thm  in  all  thought,  and  jovance  everywhere— 


HcthinkB,  it  should  have  been  impossible 
Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  world  so  filled  ; 
Where  the  breeze  warbles,  and  the  mute  still  air 
Is  Music  slumbering  on  her  instrument. 

And  thus,  my  love  I  as  on  the  midway  slope 
or  yonder  bill  I  ettetch  my  limbs  at  noon, 
"Wbilst  through  my  half-closed  eyelids  I  behold 
The  sunbeams  dance,  like  diamonds,  on  the  main, 
And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity  : 
Full  many  a  thought  uncalled  and  undetained, 
And  many  idle  flitting  phantasies, 
Traverse  my  indolent  and  passive  brnin, 
As  wild  and  various  as  the  random  gales 
That  swell  and  flutter  on  this  subject  lute  ! 

And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 
Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed, 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweep* 
Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze. 
At  once  the  Soul  of  each,  and  God  of  AU  ? 

But  thy  more  serious  eye  a  mild  reproof 
Darts;  0  beloved  woman  !  nor  such  thoughts  •-"■'- 
Dim  and  unhallowed  dost  thou  not  reject, 
And  biddest  me  walk  humbly  with  my  God 
Meek  daughter  in  the  family  of  Christ ! 
Well  hast  thou  said  and  holily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  the  unregenerate  mind  ; 
Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 
On  vain  Philosophy's  aye-babbUng  spring. 
For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  him. 
The  Incomprehensible  !  save  when  with  awe 
1  praise  him,  and  with  Faith  that  inly  feels  ; 
Who  with  his  saving  mercies  healed  me, 
A  sinful  and  moat  miserable  man, 
Wildered  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 
Peace,  and  this  cot,  and  thee,  heart-honored  Maid 




Sermooi  propriora. — ^bob. 

liow  was  our  pretty  Cot :  onr  tallest  rose 
Peeped  at  the  chainber-window.     We  could  hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  mom. 
The  sea's  faint  murmur.     In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  hlossomed ;  and  acroes  the  porch 
Thick  jasmius  twined  :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody,  and  refreshed  the  eye. 
It  was  a  8|K)t  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion  I     Once  I  saw 
(Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  hy  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by, 
Bristowa*s  citizen  :  methought,  it  calmed 
His  thirst  of  idle  gold,  and  made  him  muse 
VVith  wiser  feelings  ;  for  he  paused,  and  looked 
\Vith  a  pleased  sadness,  and  gazed  all  around. 
Then  eyed  our  Cottage,  and  gazed  round  again, 
And  sighed,  and  said,  it  was  a  Blessed  Place. 
And  we  were  blessed.     Oft  with  patient  ear 
Long  listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's  note 
(Viewless,  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wings)  in  whispered  tones 
I've  said  to  my  heloved,  "  Such,  sweet  girl  I 
The  inobtrusive  song  of  happiness, 
Unearthly  minstrelsy  I  then  only  heard 
When  the  soul  seeks  to  hear  ;  when  all  is  hushed. 
And  the  heart  listens  !" 

But  the  time  when  first. 
From  that  low  dell,  steep  up  the  stony  mount 
I  climbed  with  perilous  toil,  and  reached  the  top. 
Oh !  what  a  goodly  scene  I     Here  the  hleak  mount. 
The  hare  hleak  mountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep ; 
Gray  clouds,  that  shadowing  s]K)t  the  sunny  fields  ; 
And  river,  now  with  hushy  ro^ks  o'erhrowed. 
Now  winding  hright  and  full,  with  naked  banks ; 


And  seats,  and  lawns,  the  Abbey  and  the  wood, 
And  cots,  and  hamlets,  and  faint  city-spire  ; 
The  Channel  there,  the  Islands  and  white  sails. 
Dim  coasts,  and  cloud-like  hilla,  and  shorele&s  Ocean— 
It  seemed  like  Omnipresence  !     God,  methought. 
Had  built  him  there  &  temple  :  the  whole  "World 
Seemed  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference, 
Ko  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 
IJiesl  hour  I     It  was  a  luxury, — to  be  ! 

Ah  !  quiet  dell !  dear  cot,  and  mount  sublime  I 
I  WHS  constrained  to  quit  you.     Was  it  ri{;ht, 
"Wliile  my  unnumbered  brethren  toiled  and  bled. 
That  I  should  dream  away  the  intrusted  hours 
Oil  roee-leaf  beds,  pampering  the  coward  heart 
With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use  ? 
Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  Howard's  eyo 
Drops  on  the  cheek  of  one  he  lifts  from  earth  : 
And  he  that  works  me  good  with  unmoved  face. 
Dues  it  but  half:  he  chills  me  while  he  aids, 
My  benefactor,  not  my  brother  man  ! 
Yet  even  this,  this  cold  beneficence 
Praise,  praise  it,  0  my  Soul  I  oft  as  thou  scann'st 
The  sluggard  Pity's  vision- weaving  tribe  ! 
Who  sigh  for  wretchednesH,  yet  shun  the  wretched, 
Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 
Their  slothful  loves  and  daiuly  sympathies  ! 
I  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and  hand, 
Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless  light 
or  science,  freedom,  and  the  truth  in  Christ. 

Yet  oft  when  after  honorable  toil 
Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking  lores  to  dream, 
My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  Cot ! 
Thy  jasmin  and  thy  windnw-pecping  rose. 
And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea -air. 
And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes — sweet  abode  ! 
Ah! — had  none  greater  I     And  that  all  had  such  I 
It  might  be  BO— but  the  time  is  not  yet. 
Speed  it,  0  Father  !     Let  thy  kingdom  come  \ 




Notus  in  fratres  animi  patemL 

Hob.  Corm.  lilx  I.  2. 

A  BLESSED  lot  hath  he,  who  having  passed 

His  youth  and  early  manhood  in  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  world,  retreats  at  length, 

With  cares  that  move,  not  agitate  the  heart. 

To  the  same  dwelling  where  his  father  dwelt ; 

And  haply  views  his  tottering  little  ones 

Emhrace  those  aged  knees  and  climh  that  lap. 

On  which  first  kneeling  his  own  infancy 

Lisped  its  hrief  prayer.     Such,  0  my  earliest  Friend  ! 

Thy  lot,  and  such  thy  hrothers  too  enjoy. 

At  distance  did  ye  climh  life's  upland  road, 

Yet  cheered  and  cheering  :  now  fraternal  love 

Hath  drawn  yoii  to  one  centre.     Be  your  days 

Holy,  and  blest  and  blessing  may  ye  live  ! 

To  me  the  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  difTereiit  fortune  and  more  diiiercnt  mind — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fixed 
Its  first  domestic  loves  ;  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  friendships.     A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  life's  pelting  ills ; 
But,  like  a  tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem, 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  and  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruffled  the  boughs,  tliey  on  my  head  at  once 
Drop{>ed  the  collected  shower  ;  and  some  most  false, 
False  and  fair  foliaged  as  the  Manchineel, 
Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  their  shade 
E'en  mid  the  storm  ;  then  breathing  subtlest  damps, 
Mixed  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  Heaven, 
That  I  woke  poisoned !     But,  all  praise  to  Him 
Who  gives  us  all  things,  more  have  yielded  me 
Permanent  shelter ;  and  beside  one  friend. 
Beneath  the  impervious  covert  of  one  oak, 


I've  laiied  a  lowly  ahed,  and  know  the  namei 
Of  huBband  and  of  father;  not  unhearinf; 
Of  that  divine  and  mighty- whigpering  voice, 
Which  from  my  childhood  to  maturer  yeara 
Spake  to  me  of  predestinated  wreaths, 
Bright  vrith  no  fading  colors ! 

Yet  at  times 
My  soul  is  sad,  that  I  have  roamed  through  life 
Still  most  a  stranger,  raott  with  naked  heart 
At  mine  own  home  and  birth-place  :  chiefly  then, 
When  1  remember  thee,  my  earliest  friend ! 
Thee,  who  didst  watch  my  boyhood  and  my  youth; 
Didst  trace  my  wanderings  wilh  a  father's  eye ; 
And  boding  evil  yet  still  hoping  good, 
Rebuked  each  fault,  and  over  all  my  woes 
Sorrowed  in  aileuce  I     He  who  counts  alone 
The  beatings  of  the  solitary  heart, 
That  beiog  knows,  how  1  have  loved  thee  ev«r. 
Loved  as  a  brother,  as  a  son  revered  thee ! 
Oh !  'tis  to  me  an  ever  new  delight. 
To  talk  of  thee  and  thine  :  or  when  the  blast 
Of  the  shrill  winter,  rattling  our  rude  sash. 
Endears  the  cleanly  hearth  and  social  bowl ; 
Or  when  as  now,  on  some  delicious  eve, 
We  in  our  sweet  sequestered  orchard-plot 
Sit  on  the  tree  crooked  earth-ward ;  whose  old  boughi, 
That  hang  above  us  in  an  arborous  roof. 
Stirred  by  the  faint  gale  of  departing  May, 
Send  their  loose  blossoms  slanting  o'er  our  heads ! 

Ifor  dost  not  thou  sometimes  recall  those  hours. 
When  with  the  joy  of  hope  thou  gav'est  thine  ear 
To  my  wild  firstling-lays.     Since  then  my  song 
Hath  sounded  deeper  notes,  such  as  beseem 
Or  that  sad  wisdom  folly  leavi^a  behind, 
Or  such  as,  tuned  to  these  tumultuous  times, 
Cope  with  the  tempest's  swell ! 

These  various  strains, 
Which  I  have  framed  in  many  a  various  mood. 


Accept,  my  brother !  and  (for  eome  perchance 
"Will  strike  discordant  on  thy  milder  mind) 
If  aught  of  error  or  intemperate  truth 
Should  meet  thine  ear,  think  thou  that  riper  age 
Will  calm  it  down,  and  let  thy  love  forgive  it ! 


FOR    A    FOUNTAIN   ON   A    HEATH. 

Tins  Sycamore,  oil  musical  with  bees, — 

Such  tents  the  Patriarchs  loved  !     0  long  unharmed 

May  all  its  aged  boughs  o*er-canopy 

The  small  round  basin,  which  this  jutting  stone 

Keeps  pure  from  falling  leaves !     Long  may  the  Sf  tinf^, 

duietly  as  a  sleeping  infant's  breath, 

Send  up  cold  waters  to  the  traveller 

With  soft  and  even  pulse  I     Nor  ever  cease 

Yon  tiny  cone  of  sand  its  soundless  dance, 

Which  at  the  bottom,  like  a  Fair}'*s  page, 

As  merry  and  no  taller,  dances  still, 

Nor  wrinkles  the  smooth  surface  of  the  Fount. 

Here  twilight  is  and  coolness  :  here  is  moss, 

A  soft  seat,  and  a  deep  and  ample  shade. 

Thou  inav'st  toil  far  and  find  no  second  tree. 

Brink,  Pilgrim,  here  ;  Here  rest  I  and  if  thy  heart 

Be  iimoceiit.  here  too  shalt  thou  refresh 

Thy  Spirit,  listening  to  some  gentle  sound, 

Or  passing  gale  or  hum  of  murmuring  bees ! 


'Tis  true,  Idoloclastes  Satyrane  I 
(So  call  him,  lor  so  mingling  blame  with  praise, 
And  smiles  with  anxious  looks,  his  earliest  friends, 
Mu^king  his  birth-name,  wont  to  character 
Jlis  wild- wood  fancy  and  impetuous  zeal,) 
Tis  true  that,  passionate  for  ancient  truths. 
And  honoring  with  religions  love  the  great 
Of  elder  times,  he  hated  to  excess. 


With  an  imquiet  and  intolerant  scorn, 

The  hollow  puppetB  of  &  hoUoii  age, 

Kvec  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  idols  !  learning,  power,  aud  time, 

(Too  much  of  all)  thus  wasting  in  vain  war 

Of  fervid  colloquy.      Sickness,  'tis  true, 

Whole  years  of  weary  days,  besieged  him  close. 

Even  to  the  gates  and  inlets  of  his  life  ! 

Bnt  it  is  true,  no  lees,  that  strenuous,  iirm, 

And  with  a  natural  gladness,  he  maiiitaiued 

The  citadel  unconquered,  aud  in  joy 

Was  strong  to  follow  the  delightful  Muse. 

For  not  a  hidden  path,  that  to  the  shades 

Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads, 

Lnrked  undiscovered  hy  him ;  not  a.  rill 

There  issues  from  the  Ibunt  of  Hippoerene, 

But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source. 

Through  open  Igade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  dell. 

Knew  the  gay  wild  flowera  on  its  banks,  and  culled 

Its  med'cinable  herbs.     Yea,  oil  alone, 

Piercing  ibe  long-ueglected  holy  cave, 

The  haunt  obscure  of  olil  Philosophy, 

He  bade  with  lilted  torch  its  starry  walU 

Sparkle,  as  erst  they  sparkled  to  the  flame 

Of  odoroDS  lamps  tended  by  Saint  and  Sage. 

0  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts ! 

0  studious  Poet,  eloquent  for  truth  ! 

Philosopher !  contemning  wealth  and  death, 

Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  Life  and  Love ! 

Here,  rather  than  on  monumental  stone, 

This  record  of  thy  worth  thy  Friend  inscribe*. 

Thoughtful,  with  quiet  tears  'ipon  hii  chctik. 



Iq  the  June  of  1797,  some  long-expected  FrieDds  paid  a  ^Uit  to  the 
author*s  cottage ;  and  on  the  morning  of  their  arriyal,  he  met  with  an  aeei- 
dent,  xrhich  disabled  him  from  walking  during  the  whole  time  of  their  ataj 
One  evening,  when  they  had  left  him  for  a  few  houra,  he  oompoaed  the  Il*1- 
lowing  lines  in  the  garden-bower. 

Well,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain, 
This  lime-tree  bower  my  prison  I     I  have  lost 
Beauties  and  feelings,  such  as  would  have  been 
Most  sweet  to  my  remembrance  even  when  age 
Had  dimmed  mine  eyes  to  blindness!   They,  meanwhile. 
Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet  again. 
On  spring}'  heath,  along  the  hill-top  edge, 
Wander  in  gladness,  and  wind  down,  perchance. 
To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told  ; 
The  roaring  dell,  o'erwooded,  narrow,  deep, 
And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day  sun ; 
W^here  its  slim  tnmk  the  ash  from  rock  to  rock 
Flings  arching  like  a  bridge  ; — that  branchless  ash, 
Unsunned  and  damp,  whose  few  poor  yellow  leaves 
Ne'er  tremble  in  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still, 
Fanned  by  the  waterfall !  and  there  my  friends 
Behold  the  dark  green  file  of  long  lank  weeds,* 
That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight !) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
Of  the  blue  clay -stone. 

Now,  my  friends  emerge 
Beneath  the  wide  wide  Heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-steepled  tract  magnificent 
Of  hilly  fields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea. 
With  some  fair  bark,  perhaps,  whose  sails  light  up 
The  slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betwixt  two  Isles 
Of  purple  shadow  !     Yes  !  they  wander  on 
In  gladness  all ;  but  thou,  inethinks,  most  g]ad, 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  for  thou  hast  pined 

*  Of  loftff  lank  weed*."]  The  asplenium  scolopendrium,  called  in  some 
eountries  the  Adder's  Tongue,  in  others  the  Hart's  Tongue ;  but  Withering 
gires  the  Adder's  Tongue  as  the  trivial  name  of  the  ophioglossum  only. 


With  lively  joy  the  jo3r8  we  can  not  share. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  when  the  last  rook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homewards,  I  blest  it !  deeming,  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  speck,  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  crossed  the  mighty  orb's  dilated  glory. 
While  Uiou  stood'st  gazing  ;  or  when  all  was  still, 
♦Flew  creeking  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  sound  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  Life. 




Dear  Charles  I  whilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe,  I  ween 
That  Genius  plunged  thee  in  that  wizard  fount 
Hight  Castalie  :  and  (sureties  of  thy  faith) 
That  Pity  and  Simplicity  stood  by. 
And  promised  for  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 
The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities, 
Steadfast  and  rooted  in  the  heavenly  Muse, 
And  washed  and  sanctified  to  Poesy. 


Yes — thou  wert  plunged,  but  with  forgetful  hand 

Held,  as  by  Thetis  erst  her  warrior  son  : 

And  with  those  recreant  unbaptized  heels 

Thou'rt  flying  from  thy  bounden  minist'ries — 

So  sore  it  seems  and  burthcnsome  a  task 

To  weave  unwithering  flowers  !     But  take  thou  heed  : 

For  thou  art  vulnerable,  wild-eyed  boy. 

And  I  have  arrowsf  myslically  dipt, 

Such  as  may  stop  thy  speed.     Is  thy  Burns  dead  ? 

And  shall  he  die  unwept,  and  sink  to  earth 

•  Flew  ereehinfj.'\  Some  months  after  I  had  written  this  line,  it  gave  me 
pleasure  to  find  tliat  Bartram  had  observed  the  same  circumstance  of  the 
Savannah  Crane.  **  When  these  birds  move  their  wings  in  flight,  their  strokes 
are  slow,  moderate  and  regular ;  and  even  when  at  a  considerable  distance  or 
high  above  us,  we  plainly  liear  the  quill-feathers ;  their  shafts  and  webs  upoii 
me  another  creek  a<i  the  joints  or  working  of  a  vessel  in  a  tempestuous  aea." 

t  PindOlymp  ii.  1.  '50 


"  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodiona  tear  ?" 
Thy  Burns,  and  Nature's  own  beloved  bard, 
Who  to  the  "  Illustrious*  of  his  native  Land 
So  properly  did  look  for  patronage." 
Ghost  of  MteeenaB  !  hide  thy  blushing  face  ! 
They  snatched  him  from  the  sickle  and  the  plough- 
To  gauge  ale-firkins. 

Oh  I  for  shame  return  I 
On  a  bleak  rock,  midway  the  Aonian  mount, 
There  stands  a  lone  and  melancholy  tree, 
Wbose  aged  branches  to  the  midnight  hlast 
Make  solemn  music  :  pluck  its  darkest  bough. 
Ere  yet  the  unwholesome  night-duw  be  exhaled. 
And  weeping  wreathe  it  round  thy  Poet's  tomb. 
Then  in  the  outskirts,  where  pollutions  grow, 
Pick  the  rank  henbane  and  the  dusky  Hewers 
or  night-shade,  or  its  red  and  tempting  fruit, 
These  with  stopped  nostril  and  glove-guarded  hand 
Knit  in  nice  intertexture,  so  to  twine, 
The  illustrious  brow  of  Scotch  Nobility. 




FniEND  of  the  wise !  and  teacher  of  the  good  1 
Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  lay 
More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  lay 
Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung  aright) 
Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 
Of  a  Human  Spirit  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 
What  may  be  told,  to  the  understanding  mind 
Revealable  ;  and  what  within  the  mind 
By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 
Of  vernal  growth,  oil  quickens  in  the  heart 
Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  1 — 
*  Verbatim  Ihnn  Buma'  dedioatim  of  hi*  Poem  to  the  Nobility  and  Gen 
tr^  of  th«  CalednoiiiD  Bunt 

VOL   vn.  H 


Theme  hard  at  higli 
Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears, 
(The  first-bom  they  of  Reason  and  twin-birth) 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force. 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem. 
Or  by  some  inner  power  ;  of  moments  awful, 
Now  in  thy  inner  life,  and  now  abroad. 
When  power  streamed  from  thee,  and  thy  soul  received 
The  light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestowed — 
Of  fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  vales  and  glens 
Native  or  outland,  lakes  and  famous  hills ! 
Or  on  the  lonely  high-road,  when  the  stars 
Were  rising ;  or  by  secret  mountain-streams. 
The  guides  and  the  companions  of  thy  way ! 

or  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Social  Sense 
Distending  wide,  and  man  beloved  as  man, 
Where  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vibrating 
Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the  burst 
Of  Heaven's  immediate  thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  main. 
For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded. 
Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 
Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant, 
When  from  the  general  heart  ef  human  kind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born  Deity  I 

Of  that  dear  Hope  afflicted  and  struck  down. 

So  summoned  homeward,  thenceforth  calm  and  sure 

From  the  dread  watch-tower  of  man's  absolute  self, 

With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 

Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold. 

The  Angel  of  the  vision  I     Then  (last  strain) 

Of  Duty,  chosen  laws  controlling  choice, 

Action  and  joy  ! — An  Orphic  song  indeed 

A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  tlioughu 

To  their  own  music  chanted  I 

0  great  Bard  ! 
Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air, 


Willi  Bleaiifast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  cvcr-eiiduring  men.     The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  vieibte  gpaco 
Shed  influence  !     They,  both  in  power  and  act. 
Are  permanent,  and  time  is  not  with  them, 
Save  as  it  workelh  for  them,  they  in  it. 
Not  less  a  sacred  roll,  than  those  of  old, 
And  to  be  placed,  a.e  they,  with  gradual  fame 
Among  the  arcbivea  of  mankind,  thy  work 
Makes  audible  a.  linked  ky  of  Truth, 
Of  truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 
Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notc« ! 
Ah  1   as  I  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  i 
And  even  as  life  returne  upon  the  drowned. 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains — 
Keen  pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 
And  feais  sel(-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of  hope; 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear; 
ijense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain. 
And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain  ; 
And  all  which  I  had  culled  in  wood-walks  wild, 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared,  and  all, 
Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out — but  flowcn 
Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 
In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave  ! 

That  way  no  more !  and  ill  beseems  it  me, 
Who  came  a  welcomer  in  herald's  guise. 
Singing  of  glory  and  futurity. 
To  w&nder  back  on  such  unhealthful  road, 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm !     And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreatfaa 
Strewed  before  thy  advancing  I 

Nor  do  thun. 
Sage  Bard  !  impair  the  memory  of  that  hour 
Of  thy  communion  with  my  nobler  mind 
By  pity  or  irrieC  already  tiilt  too  long  1 


Nor  let  my  words  import  more  blame  than  needi 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased :  for  peace  is  nigh 
Where  wisdom's  voice  has  found  a  listening  heart. 
Amid  the  howl  of  more  than  wintry  storms, 
The  halcyon  hears  the  voice  of  vernal  hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve, 
Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  Home 
Is  sweetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake  hailed 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  for  thy  song. 
In  silence  listening,  like  a  devout  child. 
My  soul  lay  passive,  by  thy  various  strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars. 
With  momentary  stars  of  my  own  birth, 
Fair  constellated  foam,*  still  darting  off 
Into  the  darkness  ;  now  a  tranquil  sea. 
Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  moon. 

And  when — 0  Friend  I  my  comforter  and  guide ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give  strength  I — 
Thy  long  sustained  Song  finally  closed, 
And  thy  deep  voice  had  ceased — yet  thou  thyself 
Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces — 
Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  it  ?  or  aspiration  ?  or  resolve  ?) 
Absorbed,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound — 
And  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 

*  "  A  beautiful  "white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary  ioterrals  coursed  by 
the  side  of  the  vessel  with  a  roar,  and  little  stars  of  flame  daoced  and 
sparkled  and  went  out  in  it :  and  every  now  and  then  light  detachments 
of  this  white  cloud-like  foam  darted  off  from  the  vessers  side,  each  with  its 
own  small  constellation,  over  the  sea,  and  scoured  out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar 
troop  over  a  wilderness." — The  Friend, 



A   CONVERSATION  POEM.       APRII.,   17'J9. 

No  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day 

Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 

Of  Butlea  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 

Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge) 

You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath. 

But  hear  no  murmuring  :  it  flows  silently, 

O'er  its  so^  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still, 

A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dim. 

Yet  lot  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 

That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  fiad 

A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stare. 

And  hark  !   the  Nightingale  begins  its  song. 

"  Most  musical,  most  melani;holy"  bird  !• 

A  melancholy  bird  1     Oh !  idle  thought  I 

In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy 

But  some  night* wandering  luan  whose  heart  was  pierced 

With  the  rememhrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 

Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 

(And  so,  poor  wretch !  filled  all  things  with  himself. 

And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 

Of  his  own  sorrow)  he,  and  such  as  he. 

First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain. 

And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit ; 

Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 

When  he  had  better  far  have  stretched  his  limba 

Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 

By  sun  or  moon-light,  to  the  influxes 

Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifUng  elements 

Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 

And  of  his  fame  forgetful !  so  his  fame 

Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality, 

'  "  ifn$t  mvticaC,  moit  mrlanchiltf.'l  This  puaagfl  b  MtUon  po«a«M.<* 
wi  txevUeaix  tar  aupcrior  to  tliat  of  mere  deBcriptiuD.  It  is  spukeD  in  tiia 
tliaraeter  of  tbfl  raelaacboly  man,  tad  baa  therefcie  a  dramatic  propriety. 
Hie  aaUior  make*  tbii  remark,  to  rcMue  bimulf  Trom  th«  charge  of  baviug 
•Uuded  vith  Urity  to  a  liu*  in  Hilloo. 


A  venerable  thing !  and  so  his  song 
Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 
Be  loved  like  Nature !     But  'twill  not  be  so ; 
And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 
Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 
In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still 
Full  of  meek  sympathy  must  heave  their  sighs 
O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

Mv  Friend,  and  thou,  our  Sister !  we  have  learnt 
A  different  lore :  we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance  I     Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes. 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music ! 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 
This  groN'c  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood. 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass. 
Thin  grass  and  kiiig-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  1  knew 
So  many  nightingales  ;  and  far  and  near. 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove. 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song. 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings. 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 
And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all — 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony. 
That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 
Forget  it  was  not  dav  !     On  moon-lit  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigr, 
TL«^ir  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright  and  full. 
Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch. 


A  most  gentle  Maid, 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  Lady  vowed  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove) 
Glides  through  the  pathways ;  she  knows  all  their  notets 
That  gentle  Maid  !  and  oil  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence ;  till  the  moon 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps!     And  she  hath  watched 
Many  a  nightingale  perched  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  0  Warbler!  till  to-morrow  eve. 
And  you,  ray  friends !  farewell,  a  short  farewell ! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain  again  ! 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  mc  !     My  dear  babe. 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  oar, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up. 
And  bid  us  listen  !     And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  playmate.     He  knows  well 
The  evening-star  ;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream. — ) 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot, 
And  he  beheld  the  moon,  and,  hushed  at  once, 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently. 
While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undropped  tears. 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moon-beam  !     Well ! — 
It  is  a  father's  tale  :  But  if  that  Heaven 


Should  give  me  Lfe,  his  childhood  shall  grow  up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy. — Once  more,  farewell, 
Sweet  Nightingale  !    Once  more,  my  friends  !  farewell 


The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Uuhelped  by  any  wind.     The  owlet *s  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again  !  loud  as  beibre. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  lefl  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings  :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis  calm  indeed  !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and  wood. 
This  populous  village  !     Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life. 
Inaudible  as  dreams  !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live. 
Making  it  a  conipanionable  form. 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself. 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But  0  I  how  oil. 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger  !  and  as  oil 
W'ith  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  mom  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 


With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  car 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come  1 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  dreamt 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams  ! 
And  so  1  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book  : 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched 
A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped  up. 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved. 
My  playmate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike  ! 

Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
AYhose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore       ^     \ 
And  in  far  other  scenes  !     For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars.  ^ 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
or  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags  :  so  shalt  thou  sec  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  leach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself 
Great  universal  Teacher  !  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the  eve-drops  tall 



Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  hlast. 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Q^uietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon. 



(The  Author  has  published  the  following  humble  fragmeiit,  eneoaniged 
hy  the  decisive  recoDimendation  of  more  than  one  of  our  mc«t  celebrated 
living  Poets.  The  language  was  intended  to  be  dramatic ;  that  is,  suited  to 
the  narrator ;  and  the  metre  corresponds  to  the  homeUness  of  the  diction. 
It  is  therefore  presented  as  the  fragment,  not  of  a  Poem,  but  of  a  coounoo 
Ballad-tale.  Whether  this  is  sufficient  to  justify  the  adoption  of  such  a 
style,  in  any  metrical  composition  not  professedly  ludicrous,  the  Author  is 
himself  in  doubt.  At  all  events,  it  is  not  presented  as  poetry,  and  it  is  io 
no  way  connected  with  the  author's  judgment  concerning  poetic  diction. 
Its  merits,  if  any,  are  exclusively  psychological.  The  story  which  must  be 
supposed  to  have  been  narrated  in  the  first  and  second  parts  is  as  follows. 

Edward,  a  young  farmer,  meets  at  the  house  of  Ellen  her  bosom-friend 
Mary,  and  commences  an  acquaintance,  which  ends  in  a  mutual  attachment 
With  her  consent,  and  bv  the  advice  of  their  common  friend  Ellen,  he  an- 
uounces  his  hopes  and  intentions  to  Mary*s  mother,  a  widow-woman  bor 
deriug  on  hor  fortieth  year,  and  from  constant  health,  the  possession  of  a 
competent  propi-rty,  and  from  having  had  no  other  children  but  Mary  and 
another  daughter  (the  father  died  in  their  infancy),  retaining  for  the  greater 
part,  her  personal  attractions  and  comeliness  of  appearance  ;  but  a  woman 
of  low  education  and  violent  temper.  The  answer  which  she  at  once  re- 
turned to  Edward's  application  was  rem.irkable — "  Well,  Edward!  you  are 
a  handsome  youn-;  fellow,  and  you  shall  liave  my  daughter.**  From  this 
time  all  their  wooing  passed  under  the  mother's  eye;  and,  in  fine,  she  be- 
came herself  enamored  of  her  future  son-in-law,  and  practised  every  art. 
l»th  of  endearment  and  of  calunmy,  to  transfer  his  affections  from  her 
daughter  to  herself.  (The  outlines  of  the  Tale  are  positive  facts,  and  of  no 
very  distant  date,  though  the  author  has  purposely  altered  the  names  and 
the  scene  of  action,  as  well  as  invented  the  characters  of  the  parties  and 
the  detail  of  the  incidents.)  Edward,  however,  though  perplexed  by  her 
strange  detractions  from  her  daughter's  good  qualities,  yet  in  the  innocence 
of  his  own  heart  still  mistaking  her  increasing  fondness  for  motherly  affec- 
tion ;  she  at  length,  overcome  by  her  miserable  passion,  after  much  abuse 
of  Mary's  temper  and  moral  tendencies,  exclaimed  with  violent  emotion — 
**  O  Edward  I  indeed,  indeed,  she  is  not  fit  for  you — she  has  not  a  heart  to 
love  you  as  you  deserve.  It  is  I  that  love  you  1  Marry  me,  Edward  1  and 
I  wili  this  very  day  settle  all  my  property  oo  you."  The  Lover's  eyes  were 
DOW  opeoed ;  and  thus  taken  by  surprise,  whether  from  the  effect  of  the 


WRTOT  whieh  he  felt,  aedng  a*  it  were  fajstericalty  on  hia  nervoui  aysteDi, 
or  that  kt  Ihe  fint  moiDeut  be  loat  tbe  Bense  of  f^tt  of  the  proposal  id 
the  feellnz  of  its  ■CraiigeoEeB  aoii  absurditj,  lie  flung  her  from  him  and 
burst  iata  &  fit  of  kughtcr.  Irritated  by  this  almoBt  to  frenij,  the  woman 
fell  on  bcr  knees,  and  in  a  lond  voice  that  approached  to  n  scream,  she 
prayetl  for  a  curie  both  on  him  and  od  her  owu  child.  Uary  happened  to 
be  in  the  room  directly  above  them,  heard  Edward's  Uugh,  and  her  moth- 
er's blaaphemauB  prajer,  and  tiunted  ntvay.  lie,  bearing  the  fall,  ran  up 
ftairs,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  carried  lier  otf  to  Ellen's  home ;  ann 
after  some  fruitleia  attempts  on  her  part  Uiirard  a  recoDciliatioa  with  hei 
mi'tlier,  she  was  nwrrjed  to  him.— And  here   the  third  part  of  the  Tale 

I  was  not  led  to  eboose  this  story  from  nnj  partiality  la  tragio,  much  leu 
to  monstrous  events  (though  at  tbe  time  that  I  composed  the  verseB,  soEue- 
wlint  more  than  twelve  years  ago,  I  was  less  averse  to  such  sul^ects  than 
at  present),  but  frwn  finding  in  it  a  striking  proof  of  the  possible  effect  on 
the  imagination,  from  an  Idea  violently  and  suddenly  impressed  on  it.  1 
bad  been  reading  Brjan  Edwards's  account  of  the  effect  of  the  Oby  witch 
craft  on  the  Negroes  in  the  West  Indies,  and  Uearue's  deeply  interesting 
anecdutea  of  similar  workings  on  the  imagination  of  tlie  Copper  Indians 
(thoaa  of  my  readers  who  have  it  in  their  power  will  be  w^l  repaid  tor  the 
trouble  of  referring  to  those  works  for  tbe  paaaages  alluded  to)  and  I  con- 
ceived the  deaign  of  showing  that  iaslancea  of  this  kind  are  not  peculiar  to 
aavage  or  barbarous  tribes,  ami  of  illustrating  the  mode  in  which  tbe  mind 
is  affected  in  these  oaaea,  and  the  progress  and  symptoma  of  the  morbid  ac- 
tion on  tbe  boey  from  the  beginning. 

The  Tale  is  aupposed  to  be  narrated  by  an  old  Seiton,  in  a  country 
churchyard,  to  a  travuUer  whose  curiosity  had  been  awakened  by  the  ap- 
pearanoe  of  three  graves,  close  by  each  other,  to  too  only  of  which  there 
were  gravestones.  On  tbe  first  of  these  was  the  name,  and  dates,  as  usual : 
on  the  second,  no  name,  but  only  a  date,  and  the  words,  "  The  Heroy  of  Ood 
is  infinite.]  lElS 

TsB  grapM  upon  the  Vicar's  wall 

Were  ripe  as  ripe  could  be ; 
And  yellow  leaves  in  Bun  and  wind 

Were  faUiDg  from  the  tree. 

On  the  hedge-elina  in  the  narrow  lane 

Still  swung  the  spikes  of  corn  : 
Dear  Lord !  it  svems  but  j-ealerday — 

Yonng  Edward's  rjiarriage  mom. 

Up  through  that  wood  behind  the  chnroh, 
There  leads  Irnm  Edward's  door 


A  mossy  track,  all  over  boughed, 
For  half  a  mile  or  more. 

And  from  their  house-door  by  that  track 
The  bride  and  bridegroom  went ; 

Sweet  Mary,  though  she  was  not  gay. 
Seemed  cheerful  and  content. 

But  when  they  to  the  church-yard  came, 

I've  heard  poor  Mary  say, 
As  soon  as  she  stept  into  the  sun, 

Her  heart  it  died  away. 

And  when  the  Vicar  joined  their  hands. 
Her  limbs  did  creep  and  freeze  ; 

But  when  they  prayed,  she  thought  she  saw 
Her  mother  on  her  knees 

And  o'er  the  church- path  they  returned — 

I  saw  poor  Mary's  back, 
Just  as  she  stepped  beneath  the  boughs 

Into  the  mossy  track. 

Her  feet  upon  the  mossy  track 

The  married  maiden  set  : 
That  moment — I  have  heard  her  say — 

She  wished  she  could  forget. 

The  shade  o'er-flushed  her  limbs  with  heat 
Then  came  a  chill  like  death  : 

And  when  the  merry  bells  rang  out. 
They  seemed  to  stop  her  breath. 

Beneath  the  foulest  mother's  curse 

Xo  child  could  ever  thrive  : 
A  mother  is  a  mother  still, 

The  holiest  thing  alive. 

So  five  months  passed  :  the  mother  still 
Would  never  heal  the  strife  ; 

But  Edward  was  a  loving  i.iau, 
And  Marv  a  fond  -wife. 


My  sister  may  not  visit  us. 
My  mother  says  her  nay : 

0  Edward  !  you  are  all  to  me, 

1  wish  for  your  sake  I  could  be 
More  lifesome  and  more  gay. 

"  Tm  dull  and  sad  !  indeed,  indeed 

I  know  I  have  no  reason  I 
Perhaps  I  am  not  well  in  health, 

And  'tis  a  gloomy  season." 

'Twas  a  drizzly  time — no  ice,  no  snow  I 

And  on  the  few  fine  days 
She  stirred  not  out  lest  she  might  meet 

Her  mother  in  the  ways. 

But  Ellen,  spite  of  miry  ways 

And  weather  dark  and  dreary. 
Trudged  every  day  to  Edward's  house^ 

And  made  them  all  more  cheery. 

Oh  !  Ellen  was  a  faithful  friend. 

More  dear  than  any  sister  ! 
As  cheerful  too  as  singing  lark  ; 
And  she  ne'er  lefl  them  till  'twas  dark. 

And  then  they  always  missed  her. 

And  now  Ash- Wednesday  came — that  da> 

But  few  to  church  repair  : 
For  on  that  day  you  know  we  read 

The  Commination  prayer. 

Our  late  old  Vicar,  a  kind  man, 

Once,  Sir,  he  said  to  me. 
He  wished  that  service  was  clean  out 

Of  our  good  liturgy. 

The  mother  walked  into  the  church^- 

To  Ellen's  seat  she  went : 
Though  Ellen  always  kept  her  church 

All  church  days  during  Lent. 


And  gentle  Ellen  welcomed  her 
With  courteous  looks  and  mild  : 

ThoLght  she  "  what  if  her  heart  should  luelt 
And  all  be  reconciled !" 

The  day  was  scarcely  like  a  day — 
The  clouds  were  black  outright : 

And  many  a  night  with  half  a  moon, 
I've  seen  the  church  more  light. 

The  wind  was  wild  ;  againit  the  glass 
The  rain  did  beat  and  bicker ; 

The  church-tower  swinging  over  head. 
You  scarce  could  hear  the  Vicar  ! 

And  then  and  there  the  mother  knelt. 

And  audibly  she  cried — 
'  Oh  !  may  a  clinging  curse  consume 

This  woman  by  my  side  ! 

0  hear  me,  hear  me,  Lord  in  Heaven, 
Although  you  take  my  life — 

0  curse  this  woman,  at  whose  house 
Young  Edward  woo'd  his  wife. 

By  night  and  day,  in  bed  and  bower, 

0  let  her  cursed  be  I' 
So  having  prayed,  steady  and  slow. 

She  rose  up  from  her  knee, 
And  left  the  church,  nor  e'er  again 

The  church-door  entered  she. 

1  saw  poor  Ellen  kneeling  still, 

So  pale,  I  guessed  not  why  : 
When  she  stood  up,  there  plainly  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eve. 


\nd  when  the  prayers  were  done,  we  all 
Came  round  and  asked  her  why  ! 

I^iddy  she  seemed,  and  sure,  there  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 


But  ere  she  from  the  church-door  stepped 

She  smiled  and  told  us  why  : 
"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse," 

Quoth  she,  '*  and  what  care  I  ?'* 

She  smiled,  and  smiled,  and  passed  it  off 

Ere  from  the  door  she  stept — 
But  all  agree  it  would  have  been 

Much  better  had  she  wept. 

And  if  her  heart  was  not  at  ease, 

This  was  her  constant  cry — 
"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse 

God's  good,  and  what  care  I  ?" 

There  was  a  hurry  in  her  looks. 

Her  struggles  she  redoubled  : 
*'  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse— 

And  why  should  I  be  troubled  ?" 

These  tears  will  come — I  dandled  her 

When  'twas  the  merest  fairy — 
Good  creature  !  and  she  hid  it  all : 

She  told  it  not  to  Mary. 

But  Mary  heard  the  tale  :  her  armi 

Round  Ellen's  neck  she  threw  ; 
"  0  Ellen,  Ellen,  she  cursed  me. 

And  now  she  hath  cursed  you  !" 

I  saw  young  Edward  by  himself 

Stalk  fast  adown  the  lea, 
He  snatched  a  stick  from  every  fence, 

A  twig  fn>m  every  tree. 

He  snapped  them  still  with  hand  or  knee, 

And  then  away  they  flew  I 
^  3  if  with  his  uneasy  limbs 

He  knew  not  what  to  do ! 

You  see,  good  sir !  that  single  hill  ? 
His  farm  lies  underneath  ; 


He  heard  it  there,  he  heard  it  all* 
And  only  gnashed  his  teeth. 

Now  Ellen  was  a  darling  love 

In  all  his  joys  and  cares  : 
And  Ellen's  name  and  Mary's  name 
Fast-linked  they  hoth  together  came 

AVhene'er  he  said  his  prayers. 

And  in  the  moment  of  his  prayeis 

He  loved  them  hoth  alike  : 
Yea,  hoth  sweet  names  with  one  swett  joy 

Upon  his  heart  did  strike  ! 

He  reached  his  home,  and  hy  his  looks 
They  saw  his  inward  strife  : 

And  they  clung  round  him  with  their  amw 
Both  Ellen  and  his  wife. 

And  Mary  could  not  check  her  tears, 
So  on  his  breast  she  bowed ; 

Then  frenzy  melted  into  grief, 
And  Edward  wept  aloud. 

Dear  Ellen  did  not  weep  at  all. 

But  closelier  did  she  cling, 
And  turned  her  face  and  looked  as  if 

She  saw  some  frightful  thing. 

PART  rv'. 

To  see  a  man  tread  over  graves 

I  hold  it  no  good  mark; 
'Tis  wicked  in  the  sun  and  moon, 

And  bad  luck  in  the  dark  ! 

You  see  that  grave  ?  The  Lord  he  give^ 

The  Lord  he  takes  away : 
0  Sir !  the  child  of  my  old  age 

Lies  there  as  cold  as  clay. 


Bxcept  that  grave,  you  scarce  aee  one 

That  w&s  not  dug  by  me  ; 
I'd  rather  daiice  upon  'em  all 

Than  tread  upon  these  three  ' 

"Ay,  Sexlon  I  'tie  a  touching  tale," 

You,  Sir!  are  but  a  lad  ; 
ThiB  month  I'm  in  my  seventieth  yeu 

And  Btill  it  makes  me  sad. 

And  Hary's  sister  told  it  me. 
For  three  good  hours  and  more  ; 

Though  I  bad  heard  it,  in  the  main. 
From  Edward's  self  before. 

Well !  it  passed  00"!  the  gentle  Ellen 

Did  well  nigh  dote  on  Mary  ; 
And  she  went  oAener  than  before. 
And  Mary  loved  her  more  and  more  ; 

She  managed  all  the  dairy. 

To  market  she  on  market-days, 

To  church  on  Sundays  came  ; 
All  seemed  the  same  :  all  seemed  so,  Sir  1 

But  all  was  not  the  same  ! 

Had  Ellen  lost  her  mirth  ?  Oh  !  no  ! 

But  she  was  seldom  cheerful  ; 
And  Edward  looked  aa  if  he  thought 

That  Ellen's  mirth  was  fearfu]. 

When  by  herself,  she  to  herself 

Must  sing  some  merry  rhyme  ; 
She  could  not  now  be  glad  for  hours, 

Yet  silent  all  the  time. 

And  when  she  soothed  her  friend,  through  all 

Her  soothing  words  'twas  plain 
She  had  a  sore  grief  of  her  own, 

A  haunting  in  her  brain. 

And  oft  she  said,  I'm  not  grown  thin  1 
And  then  hor  wrist  she  spanned  ; 


And  ouce  when  Mary  was  downcast. 

She  took  her  by  the  hand, 
And  gazed  upon  her,  and  at  first 

She  gently  pressed  her  hand ; 

Then  harder,  till  her  grasp  at  length 
Did  gripe  like  a  convulsion  I 

.Vlas  !  said  she,  we  ne'er  can  be 
Made  happy  by  compulsion  ! 

And  once  her  both  arms  suddenly 
Round  Mary's  neck  she  flung, 

And  her  heart  panted,  and  she  felt 
The  words  upon  her  tongue. 

She  felt  them  coming,  but  no  power 
Had  she  the  words  to  smother  ; 

And  with  a  kind  of  shriek  she  cried, 
•'  Oh  Christ !  you're  like  your  mother  V 

So  penile  Ellen  now  no  more 

Could  make  this  sad  house  cheery ; 

And  Mary's  melancholy  ways 
Drove  Edward  wild  and  weary. 

Linjrering  he  raised  his  latch  at  eve, 
Thoujrh  tired  in  heart  and  limb : 

He  loved  no  other  place,  and  yet 
Home  was  no  home  to  him. 

One  evening  he  took  up  a  book, 

And  nothing  in  it  read  ; 
Then  Hung  it  down,  and  groaning  cried, 

•'  Oh  I  Heaven  !  that  I  were  dead.*' 

Mary  looked  up  into  his  face, 

And  nothing  to  him  said  ; 
She  tried  to  smile,  and  on  his  arm 

Mournfully  leaned  her  head. 

\nd  he  burst  into  tears,  and  fell 
Upon  his  knees  in  prayer : 


"  Her  lieart  is  broke  1  0  God  1  my  giief. 

It  ia  too  great  to  bear  '." 

'Twaa  such  a  foggy  time  as  makes 

Utd  sextona,  Sir !  like  me, 
Rest  on  their  spades  to  cough  ;  the  apriog 

Was  late  ud commonly. 

And  then  the  hot  days,  all  at  once, 
They  came,  we  knew  not  how  ; 

You  looked  about  tor  shade,  when  scarce 
A  leaf  was  on  a  bough. 

U  happened  tben  ('twaa  in  the  bower 

A  furlong  up  the  wood : 
Perhaps  you  know  the  place,  and  yet 

I  Bcacce  know  how  you  should, — ^ 

No  path  leads  thither,  'tia  not  nigh 

To  any  paslure-jilot ; 
But  clustered  near  the  chattering  brook. 

Lone  hollies  marked  the  spot. 

Those  hollies  of  themselves  a  shape 

Aa  of  an  arbor  took, 
A  close,  round  arbor  ;  and  it  standi 

Not  three  strides  from  a  brook. 

Within  this  arbor,  which  was  still 

With  scarlet  berries  hung. 
Were  these  three  friends,  one  Sunday  mom 

Just  as  the  first  bull  rung. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  tliem  both  at  once. 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 

His  limb*  along  the  mam,  his  b«>d 
Upon  a  moBsy  heap. 


With  shut-up  senses,  Edward  lay : 
That  brook  e'en  on  a  working  day 
Might  chatter  one  to  sleep. 

And  he  had  passed  a  restless  night, 

And  was  not  well  in  health  ; 
The  women  sat  down  by  his  side, 

AjyI  talked  as  'twere  by  stealth. 

"  The  sun  peeps  through  the  close  thick  leavea. 

See,  dearest  Ellen !  see ! 
'Tis  in  the  leaves,  a  little  sun, 

No  bigger  than  your  ee  ; 

"  A  tiny  sun,  and  it  has  got 

A  perfect  glory  too  ; 
Ten  thousand  threads  and  hairs  of  light. 
Make  up  a  glor}%  gay  and  bright, 

Round  that  small  orb,  so  blue/' 

And  then  they  argued  of  those  rays, 

What  color  they  might  be  ; 
Says  this,  •'  they're  mostly  green  ;"  says  that^ 

*'  They're  amber-like  to  me.  ' 

So  they  sat  chatting,  while  bad  thoughts 

Were  troubling  Edward's  rest ; 
But  soon  they  heard  his  hard  quick  pants, 

And  the  thumping  in  his  breabt. 

"  A  mother  too  I"  these  self-same  words 

Did  Edward  mutter  plain  ; 
His  face  was  drawn  back  on  itself, 

With  horror  and  huge  pain. 

Both  groaned  at  once,  for  both  knew  well 
What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind  ; 

Whfn  he  waked  up,  and  stared  like  one 
That  had  been  just  struck  blind. 

Ue  sat  upright ;  and  ere  the  dream 
Had  had  time  to. depart. 


"  0  God,  forgive  me  !  (be  exclaimed) 
I  have  torn  oat  her  hea.rt." 

Then  EUea  ihrieked,  and  forthwith  burst 

Into  ungentle  laughter ; 
And  Mary  shivend,  where  she  lat, 

And  never  «he  amiled  aller. 




Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms ; 
And  I  fear»  I  fear,  mj  Master  dear ! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storoL 


Well  !     If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise,  who  made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 
Unroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 
Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes, 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  JEolian  lute, 
"Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo  I  the  New-moon  winter-bright  I 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phantom  light  overspread 
But  rimmed  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread) 
^  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 

The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  oh  !  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 

And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast ! 
Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  mo,  whilst  they  awed. 

And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 
Might  now,  perhaps,  their  wonted  impulse  give. 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move  and  live  ! 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsv.  urampassioned  grief, 


Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

0  Lady  !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To  other  thoughts  hy  yonder  throstle  woo*d, 

All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene. 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green  : 
And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye  ! 
And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars. 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars  ; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but  always  seen 
Yon  crescent  Moon  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue  ; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

[  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 


My  genial  spirits  fail ; 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast  ? 

It  were  a  vain  endeavor, 

Though  I  should  gaze  forever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  withiii. 


O  Lady  I  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live  : 

Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd. 

Ah  I  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth. 
Of  all  tweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 





0  pure  of  heart ;  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  mc 
Wliat  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be ! 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  Lady !  Joy  that  ne'er  was  given, 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour. 
Life,  and  Life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and  shower 
Joy,  Lady !  is  the  spirit  and  the  power 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower, 

A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven, 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice  I 
Aiid  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colors  a  sufi'usion  from  that  light. 


There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path  was  rough, 
This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress. 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 

Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness  : 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining  vine, 
And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own,  seemed  mine. 
But  now  afflictions  bow  me  do^Ti  to  earth : 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth. 

But  oh  !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 

My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can  ; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man^- 

This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan  : 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my  soul 



Hence  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, 

Reality's  dark  dream ! 
I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind, 

Which  long  has  raved  uunoticed.     What  a  scream 
Of  agony  hy  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth !    Thou  Wind,  that  ravest  without, 

Bare  craig,  or  mountain-taim,*^  or  blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  home, 
Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee, 
Mad  Lutanist !  who  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark-brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Mak'st  Devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song. 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 

Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds  I 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold  I 
What  tell'st  thou  now  about  ? 
'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  rout, 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smarting  wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder  with  the  cold  ! 
But  hush  I  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence  ! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd, 
With  groans  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is  over — 
It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and  loud  ! 
A  tale  of  less  affright. 
And  tempered  with  delight, 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay, 
'Tis  of  a  little  child. 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild. 
Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way  : 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear. 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her  mother  hear. 

•  Tairn  is  a  small  lake,  generally  if  not  always  applied  to  the  lakes  up 
in  the  mountains,  and  which  are  the  feeders  of  those  in  the  valleys.  This 
address  to  the  Storm-wind  will  not  appear  extravagant  to  (hose  who  have 
bfisird  it  at  night,  and  io  a  mountainous  country. 

VOL.   VII.  [ 



*Ti8  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep ; 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep  ! 
Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep !  with  wings  of  healing. 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain*birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleeping  Sarth  ! 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice  ; 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole. 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

0  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above. 
Dear  Lady  !  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice. 
Thus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 



"  And  bail  the  chapel  I  hail  the  platform  wild 

AVliere  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart. 
With  well-strung  arm.  that  first  preserved  his  child, 

Then  aimed  the  arrow  at  the  tyrant's  heart.** 

{Splendor's  fondly  fostered  child  ! 
And  did  you  hail  the  platform  wild. 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  I 
0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

Light  as  a  dream  your  days  their  circlets  ran. 
From  all  that  teaches  brotherhood  to  Man 
Far,  far  removed  !  from  want,  from  hope,  from  fear ! 
Enchanting  music  lulled  your  infant  ear, 
Obeisance,  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart : 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests, 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art; 

Detained  your  eye  from  nature  :  stately  vests. 


That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  diviue, 
Rich  viands  and  the  pleasurable  wine, 
Were  yours  unearned  by  toil ;  nor  could  you  see 
The  unenjoying  toiler's  misery. 
And  yet,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild. 
Where  once  the  Austrian  i'ell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 

Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

There  crowd  your  finely  fibred  frame, 

All  living  faculties  of  bliss  ; 
And  Genius  to  your  cradle  came, 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame, 
And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 
Breath'd  in  a  more  celestial  life  ; 
But  boasts  not  many  a  fair  compeer, 

A  heart  as  sensitive  to  joy  and  fear  ? 
And  some,  perchance,  might  wage  an  equal  strifu, 
Some  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Corrivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought. 
Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 
Laurelled  war  and  plumy  state  ; 
Or  in  verse  and  music  dress 
Tales  of  rustic  happiness — 
Pernicious  tales  !  insidious  strains  ! 
That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast, 
And  mock  the  lot  un blest. 
The  sordid  vices  and  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  ignorance  and  penury  I 
But  you,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child. 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Whence  leam'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

You  wore  a  mother !     That  most  holy  name, 
Which  Heaven  and  Nature  bless. 


I  may  not  vilely  prostitute  to  those 

Whose  infants  owe  them  less 
Than  the  poor  caterpillar  owes 
Its  gaudy  parent  fly. 
You  were  a  mother  !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The  babes  that  loved  you.     You,  with  laughing;  eye, 
Each  twilight  thought,  each  nascent  feeling  read, 
Which  you  yourself  created.     Oh  I  delight  * 
A  second  time  to  be  a  mother, 

Without  the  mother's  bitter  groans  : 
Another  thought,  and  yet  another. 
By  touch  or  taste,  by  looks  or  tones 
0*er  the  growing  sense  to  roll, 
The  mother  of  your  infant's  soul ! 
The  Angel  of  the  Earth,  who,  while  he  guides 

His  chariot-planet  round  the  goal  of  day, 
All  trembling  gazes  on  the  eye  of  God, 

A  moment  turned  his  awful  face  away  ; 
And  as  he  viewed  you,  from  his  aspect  sweet 

New  influences  in  your  being  rose, 
Blest  intuitions  and  communions  fleet, 

With  living  Nature,  in  her  joys  and  woes ! 
Thenceforth  your  soul  rejoiced  to  see 
The  shrine  of  social  Liberty  I 
0  beautiful  !  0  Nature's  child  ! 
'Twas  thence  you  hailed  the  platform  wild. 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  I 
Thence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure. 


Tranquillity  I  thou  better  name 
Than  all  the  family  of  Fame  ! 
Thou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age 
To  low  intrigue,  or  factious  rage  ; 
For  oh  1  dear  child  of  thoughtful  Truth* 
To  thee  I  gave  my  early  youth, 


And  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  steadfast  shore. 

Ere  yet  the  tempest  rose,  and  scared  me  with  its  roar. 

Who  late  and  lingering  seeks  thy  shrine, 

On  him  but  seldom.  Power  divine, 

Ihy  spirit  rests  !     Satiety 

And  Sloth,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee, 

Mock  the  tired  worldling.     Idle  hope 

And  dire  remembrance  interlope. 
To  vex  the  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind  : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  the  spectre  stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 

At  morning  through  the  accustomed  mead  : 

And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 

Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat ; 

And  when  the  gust  of  Autumn  crowds, 

And  breaks  the  busy  moonlight  clouds. 
Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,  the  heart  attune, 
Light  as  the  busy  clouds,  calm  as  the  gliding  moon. 

The  feeling  heart,  the  searching  soul. 

To  thee  I  dedicate  the  whole ! 

And  while  within  myself  I  trace 

The  greatness  of  some  future  race, 

Aloof  with  hermit-eye  I  scan 

The  present  works  of  present  man — 
A  wild  and  dream-like  trade  of  blood  and  guile. 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile ! 



COMPOSED    IN    1796. 

A  MOUNT,  not  wearisome  and  bare  and  steep. 

But  a  green  mountain  variously  up-piled, 
Where  o*er  the  jutting  rocks  soft  mosses  creep. 
Or  colored  lichens  with  slow  oozing  weep ; 

Where  cypress  and  the  darker  yew  start  wild  ; 
And  'mid  the  summer  torrent's  gentle  dash 
Dance  brightened  the  red  <:lu8tcrs  of  the  ash ; 


Beneath  whose  boughs,  by  those  still  sounds  btsguiled* 
Calm  Pensiveness  might  muse  herself  to  sleep ; 

Till  haply  startled  by  some  fleecy  dam, 
That  rustling  on  the  bushy  cliff  above, 
With  melancholy  bleat  of  anxious  love, 

Made  meek  inquiry  for  her  wandering  lamb  : 

Such  a  green  mountain  'twere  most  sweet  to  climb, 
£Vn  while  the  bosom  ached  with  loneliness — 
How  more  than  sweet,  if  some  dear  friend  should  bless 

The  adventurous  toil,  and  up  the  path  sublime 
Now  lead,  now  follow  :  the  glad  landscape  round 
AVide  and  more  wide,  increasing  without  bound ! 

0  then  Hwere  loveliest  sympathy,  to  mark 
The  berries  of  the  half-uprooted  ash 
Dripping  and  bright ;  and  list  the  torrent's  dash, — 

Beneath  the  cypress,  or  the  yew  more  dark. 
Seated  at  ease,  on  some  smooth  mossy  rock ; 
In  social  silence  now,  and  now  to  unlock 
The  treasured  heart ;  arm  linked  in  friendly  arm, 
Save  if  the  one,  his  muse's  witching  charm 
Muttering  brow-bent,  at  unwatched  distance  lag; 

Till  high  o'er  head  his  beckoning  friend  appears 
And  from  the  forehead  of  the  topmost  crag 

Shouts  eagerly  :  for  haply  there  uprears 
That  shadowing  pine  its  old  romantic  limbs. 

Which  latest  shall  detain  the  enamored  sight 
Seen  from  below,  when  eve  the  valley  dims. 

Tinged  yellow  with  the  rich  departing  light ; 

And  haply,  basoned  in  some  unsunned  cleft, 
A  beauteous  spring,  the  rock's  collected  tears, 
Sleeps  sheltered  there,  scarce  wrinkled  by  the  gale! 

Together  thus,  the  world's  vain  turmoil  left. 
Stretched  on  the  crag,  and  shadowed  by  the  pine. 

And  bending  o'er  the  clear  delicious  fount. 
Ah  I  dearest  youth  I  it  were  a  lot  divine 
To  cheat  our  noons  in  moralizing  mood. 
While  west-winds  fanned  our  temples  toil-bedewed  : 

Then  downwards  slope,  oft  pausing,  from  the  mount. 
To  some  lone  mansion,  in  some  woody  dale, 


Where  smiling  with  blue  eye,  domestic  bliss 
Gives  this  the  husband's,  that  the  brother's  kiss  1 

Thus  rudely  versed  in  allegoric  lore, 
The  Hill  of  Knowledge  I  essayed  to  trace ; 
That  verdurous  hill  with  many  a  resting-place. 
And  many  a  stream,  whose  warbling  waters  pour 

To  glad  and  fertilize  the  subject  plains  ; 
That  hill  with  secret  springs,  and  nooks  untrod, 
And  many  a  fancy-blest  and  holy  sod 

Where  Inspiration,  his  diviner  strains 
Low  murmuring,  lay ;  and  starting  from  the  rocks 
Stiff  evergreens,  whose  spreading  foliage  mocks 
Want's  barren  soil,  and  the  bleak  frosts  of  age, 
And  bigotry's  mad  fire-invoking  rage  ! 
0  meek  retiring  spirit !  we  will  climb, 
Cheering  and  cheered,  this  lovely  hill  sublime ; 

And  from  the  stirring  world  up-lifled  high, 
(Whose  noises,  faintly  wafted  on  the  wind. 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind,  - 

And  oil  the  melancholy  theme  supply) 

There,  while  the  prospect  through  the  gazing  eye 

Pours  all  its  healthful  greenness  on  the  soul, 
We'll  smile  at  wealth,  and  learn  to  smile  at  fame. 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same, 

As  neighboring  fountains  image,  each  the  whole : 
Then  when  the  mind  bath  drunk  its  fill  of  truth       ^ 

We'll  discipline  the  heart  to  pure  delight. 
Rekindling  sober  joy's  domestic  fiame. 
They  whom  I  love  shall  love  thee,  honored  youth ! 

Now  may  Heaven  realize  this  vision  bright ! 

LINES  TO  W.  L. 

WHILE    HE    SANG    A    SONG    TO    PURCELL's    MU81C. 

While  my  young  cheek  retains  its  healthful  hues, 
And  I  have  many  friends  who  hold  me  dear ; 
L  !  methinks,  I  would  not  oflen  hear 

Such  melodies  as  thine,  lest  I  should  lose 


All  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  sore  distross^ 

For  which  my  miserable  brethren  weep ! 

But  should  uncomforted  misfortunes  steep 
My  daily  bread  in  tears  and  bitterness ; 
And  if  at  death's  dread  moment  I  should  lie 

With  no  beloved  face  at  my  bed-side, 
To  fix  the  last  glance  of  my  closing  eye, 

Methinks,  such  strains,  breathed  by  my  angel-guidc, 
Would  make  me  pass  the  cup  of  anguish  by, 

Mix  with  the  blest,  nor  know  that  I  had  died ! 




Hence  that  fantastic  wantonness  of  woe, 

0  Youth  to  partial  Fortune  vainly  dear ! 
To  plundered  want's  half-sheltered  hovel  go, 

Go,  and  some  hunger-bitten  infant  hear 

Moan  haply  in  a  dying  mother's  ear : 
Or  when  the  cold  and  dismal  fog-damps  brood 
O'er  the  rank  church-yard  with  sere  elm-leaves  strewed. 
Pace  round  some  widow's  grave,  whose  dearer  part 

Was  slaughtered,  where  o'er  his  uncoffined  limbs 
The  flocking  flesh-birds  screamed  I    Then,  while  thy  heart 

Groans,  and  thine  eye  a  fiercer  sorrow  dims. 
Know  (and  the  truth  shall  kindle  thy  young  mind) 
What  nature  makes  thee  mourn,  she  bids  thee  heal ! 

0  abject  1  if,  to  sickly  dreams  resigned, 
All  eflbrtless  thou  leave  life's  common- weal 

A  prey  to  tyrants,  murderers  of  mankind. 


Dear  native  brook  !  wild  streamlet  of  the  West  I 
How  many  various-fated  years  have  past, 
Wliat  happy,  and  what  mournful  hours,  since  last 
1  skimmed  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy  breast. 
Numbering  its  light  leaps  !  yet  so  deep  imprest 


Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine  eyes 

I  never  shut  amid  the  sunny  ray, 
But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise. 

Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  marge  with  willows  gray, 
And  hedded  sand  that,  veined  with  various  dyes, 
Gleamed  through  thy  bright  transparence  !   On  my  way, 

Visions  of  childhood  I  oft  have  ye  beguiled 
Lone  manhood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs 

Ah  !  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child  ! 



Oft  o'er  my  brain  does  that  strange  fancy  roll 

Which  makes  the  present  (while  the  flash  doth  last) 
Seem  a  mere  semblance  of  some  unknown  past 

Mixed  with  such  feelings,  as  perplex  the  soul 

Self-questioned  in  her  sleep  ;  and  some  have  said 
We  lived,  ere  yet  this  robe  of  flesh  we  wore. 
0  my  sweet  baby  !  when  I  reach  my  door, 

If  heavy  looks  should  tell  me  thou  art  dead, 

(As  sometimes,  through  excess  of  hope,  I  fear) 

I  think  that  I  should  struggle  to  believe 
Thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  this  nether  sphere 

Sentenced  for  some  more  venial  crime  to  grieve  ; 

Did'st  scream,  then  spring  to  meet  Heaven  s  quick  reprieve, 

While  we  wept  idly  o'er  thy  little  bier ! 




Charles  !  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 

I  scanned  that  face  of  feeble  infancy  : 
For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 

All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  child  might  be  ! 

•  'Hv  nov  iffiuv  ij  ^vxv  nptv  Iv  rt^Se  r^  uv^pomvot  elSei  yevitrdtu, — Plai 
in  Phadon, 



But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  mother's  ann, 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
Bent  o*er  its  features  with  a  tearful  smile) 

Then  I  was  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most  warm 

Impressed  a  father's  kiss  :  and  all  beguiled 
Of  dark  remembrance  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seemed  to  see  an  angel-form  appear — 

'Twas  even  thine,  beloved  woman  mild ! 
So  for  the  mother*s  sake  the  child  was  dear. 

And  dearer  was  the  mother  for  the  child. 




DoEMi,  Jesu !  Mater  ridet 
dua)  tarn  dulcem  somnum  videt, 

Dormi,  Jesu  !  bland  ule  ! 
Si  lion  dormis,  Mater  plorat, 
Inter  fila  cantans  orat, 

Blande,  veni,  somnule. 


Sleep,  sweet  babe  !  my  cares  beguiling : 
Mother  sits  beside  thee  smiling ; 

Sleep,  my  darling,  tenderly  I 
If  thou  sleep  not,  mother  mourneth, 
Singing  as  her  wheel  she  turneth : 

Come,  soft  slumber,  balmily  I 


Its  balmy  lips  the  infant  blest 
Relaxing  from  its  mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  it  heaves  the  happy  sigh 
Of  innocent  satiety ! 

And  such  my  infant's  latest  sigh  ! 
0  tell,  rude  stone  !  the  passer-by. 
That  here  the  pretty  babe  doth  lie, 
Death  sang  to  sleep  with  Lullaby. 




Stretch' D  on  a  mouldered  Abbey's  broadest  wall, 

Where  ruining  ivies  propped  the  ruins  steep — 
Her  folded  arms  wrapping  her  tattered  pall, 

Had  melancholy  mus'd  herself  to  sleep. 

The  fern  was  pressed  beneath  her  hair, 

The  dark  green  adder's  tongue  was  there ; 
And  still  as  past  the  flagging  sea-gale  weak, 
The  long  lank  leaf  bowed  fluttering  o'er  her  check. 

That  pallid  cheek  was  flushed  :  her  eager  look 
Beamed  eloquent  in  slumber  !     Inly  wrought. 

Imperfect  sounds  her  moving  lips  forsook, 
And  her  bent  forehead  worked  with  troubled  thought. 
Strange  was  the  dream 



BIark  this  holy  chapel  well ! 
The  birth-place,  this,  of  William  Tell 
Here,  where  stands  God's  altar  dread, 
Stood  his  parents'  marriage-bed. 


Here,  first,  an  infant  to  her  breast, 
Him  his  loving  mother  prest ; 
And  kissed  the  babe,  and  blessed  the  day, 
And  prayed  as  mothers  used  to  pray. 


*'  Vouchsafe  him  health,  0  God !  and  give 
The  child  thy  servant  still  to  live  I" 
But  God  had  destined  to  do  more 
Through  him,  than  through  an  armed  power. 



God  gave  him  reverence  of  laws, 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  Freedom's  cause— 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin, 

The  eye  of  the  hawk,  and  the  fire  therein  I 

To  Nature  and  to  Holy  Writ 
Alone  did  God  the  boy  commit : 
Where  flashed  and  roared  the  torrent,  oft 
His  soul  found  winga,  and  soared  aloft ! 


The  straining  oar  and  chamois  chase 
Had  formed  his  limbs  to  strength  and  grace 
On  wave  and  wind  the  boy  would  toss. 
Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was  ! 


He  knew  not  that  his  chosen  hand, 
Made  strong  by  God,  his  native  land 
Would  rescue  from  the  shameful  yoke 
Of  Slavery — the  which  he  broke  I 



The  shepherds  went  their  hasty  way. 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed 
Where  the  Virgin-Mother  lay  : 

And  now  they  checked  their  eager  tread. 
For  to  the  Babe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung. 
A  mother's  song  the  Virgin-Mother  sung. 


They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 
Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 

Around  them  shone,  suspending  night  I 
While  sweeter  than  a  mother's  long, 

sibylline:  leaves.  206 

Blest  Angels  heralded  the  Saviour's  hirth, 
Glory  to  God  on  high  !  and  Peace  on  Earth. 


She  listened  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  Babe  she  prest ; 
And  while  she  cried,  the  Babe  io  mine  ! 
The  milk  rushed  i'astcr  to  her  breast : 
Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summcr^s  morn ; 
Peace,  Peace  on  earth !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  bon 


Thou  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate ! 
That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease, 
0  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 
Sweet  music's  loudest  note,  the  poet's  story, 

Did'st  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  fame  and  glory  ? 


And  is  not  war  a  youthful  king, 
A  stately  hero  clad  in  mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring  ; 
Him  Earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail 
Their  friend,  their  playmate  !  and  his  bold  I  right  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 


"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene. 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state  ! 
I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean, 
And  therefore  is  my  soul  elate. 
War  is  a  ruffian,  all  with  guilt  defiled. 
That  from  the  aged  father  tears  his  child  ! 


"  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 
He  kills  the  sire  and  starves  the  son  ; 

The  husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 
Steals  all  his  widow's  toil  had  won ; 


Plunders  6od*8  world  of  beauty ;  rends  away 

All  safety  from  the  uight,  all  comfort  from  the  day. 


'*  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease  : 
Tm  poor  and  of  a  low  estate, 

The  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  mom  : 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth  !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  bom.* 



[f  dead,  we  cease  to  be  ;  if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  flash  for  aye,  we  fare 
A.S  summer-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom. 

Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare. 
But  are  their  whole  of  being  !  If  the  breath 

Be  life  itself,  and  not  its  task  and  tent, 
If  even  a  soul  like  Milton's  can  know  death  ; 

0  Man  !  thou  vessel  purposeless,  unmeant, 
Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  phantom  purposes  ! 

Surplus  of  nature's  dread  activity. 
Which,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finished  vase 
Retreating  slow,  with  meditative  pause, 

She  formed  with  restless  hands  unconsciously ! 
Blank  accident !  nothing^s  anomaly  ! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substanceless  thy  state, 
Go,  weigh  thy  dreams,  and  be  thy  hopes,  thy  fears, 
The  counter-weights ! — Thy  laughter  and  thy  tears 

Mean  but  themselves,  each  fittest  to  create, 
And  to  repay  the  other !  Why  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 

Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  mourner's  hood, 
Why  waste  thy  sighs,  and  thy  lamenting  voices. 

Image  of  image,  ghost  of  ghostly  elf, 
That  such  a  thing  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold  ? 
Yet  what  and  whence  thy  gain,  if  thou  withhold 


These  costly  shadows  of  thy  shadowy  self  ? 
Be  sad  !  he  glad !  he  neither  !  seek,  or  shun  ! 
Thou  hast  no  reason  why  !  Thou  can^st  have  none  ; 
Thy  heing's  heing  is  contradiction. 


— They  shrink  in,  as  Moles 
(Nature's  mute  monks,  live  mandrakes  of  the  gi-ound^ 
Creep  back  from  Light — theu  listen  for  its  sound  ; — 
See  but  to  dread,  and  dread  they  know  not  why — 
The  natural  alien  of  their  negative  eye. 



Never,  believe  me, 
Appear  the  Immortals, 
Never  alone  : 
Scarce  had  I  welcomed  the  sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus  !  but  in  came  boy  Cupid  the  smiler  ; 
Lo !  Phoebus  the  glorious  descends  from  his  throne  ! 
They  advance,  they  float  in,  the  Olympians  all  I 
With  divinities  fills  my 
Terrestrial  hall ! 

How  shall  I  yield  you 
Due  entertainment. 
Celestial  quire  ? 
Me  rather,  bright  guests  !  with  your  wings  of  up-buoyanoa 
Bear  aloft  to  your  homes,  to  your  banquets  of  joyance, 
That  the  roofs  of  Olympus  may  echo  my  lyre  ! 
Uah  !  we  mount !  on  their  pinions  they  wall  up  my  soul ! 
0  give  me  the  nectar  I 
0  fill  me  the  bowl ! 
Give  him  the  nectar  ! 
Pour  out  for  the  poet, 
Hebe  I  pour  free  ! 


duicken  his  eyes  with  celestial  dew,         • 
That  Styx  the  detested  no  more  he  may  view. 
And  like  one  of  us  Gods  may  conceit  him  to  be  i 
Thanks,  Hebe  !  I  quafi'it !  lo  Psean,  I  cry  ! 
The  wine  of  the  Immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die  ! 



Near  the  lone  pile  with  ivy  overspread, 

Fast  by  the  rivulet's  sleep-persuading  sound, 

Where  "  sleeps  the  moonlight"  on  yon  verdant  bed  — 
0  humbly  press  that  consecrated  ground  ! 

For  there  does  Edmund  rest,  the  learned  swain ! 

And  there  his  spirit  most  delights  to  rove  : 
Young  Edmund  !  famed  for  each  harmonious  strain, 

And  the  sore  wounds  of  ill-requited  love. 

Like  some  tall  tree  that  spreads  its  branches  wide, 
And  loads  the  west-wind  with  its  soft  perfume. 

His  manhood  blossomed  :  till  the  faithless  pride 
Of  fair  Matilda  sank  him  to  the  tomb. 

But  soon  did  righteous  Heaven  her  guilt  pursue  ! 

Where'er  with  wildered  step  she  wandered  pale. 
Still  Edmund's  image  rose  to  blast  her  view, 

Still  Edmund's  voice  accused  her  in  each  gale. 

With  keen  regret,  and  conscious  guilt's  alarms. 

Amid  the  pomp  of  affluence  she  pined  ; 
Nor  all  that  lured  her  faith  from  Edmund's  arms 

Could  lull  the  wakeful  horror  of  her  mind. 

Go,  Traveller  I  tell  the  tale  with  sorrow  fraught : 
Some  tearful  maid  perchance,  or  blooming  youth, 

May  hold  it  in  remembrance  ;  and  be  taught 
That  riches  can  not  pay  for  Love  or  Truth. 



k  swoRDED  man  wfaoee  trade  is  blood, 
In  grief,  in  anger,  and  in  fear, 

Thro'  jungle,  swamp,  and  torrent  flood, 
I  aeek  the  wealth  you  hold  so  dear  ! 

The  dazzling  charm  of  outward  form. 
The  power  of  gold  the  pride  of  birth. 

Have  taken  Woman's  heart  by  etorm-'— 
Usurped  the  place  of  inward  worth. 

Is  not  true  Love  of  higher  price 
Than  outward  Form,  tho'  fair  to  see. 

Wealth's  glittering  fairy-dome  of  ice. 
Or  echo  of  proud  ancestry  ? — 

O !  Asra,  Aara !  couldst  thou  see 
Into  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

There's  such  a  mine  of  Love  for  the«. 
As  almost  might  supply  desert ! 

(This  separation  is,  alas  ! 

Too  great  a  punishment  to  be«r ; 
0  !  take  my  life,  or  let  me  pass 

That  life,  that  happy  life,  with  her !) 

The  perils,  erst  with  steadfast  eye 
EncouQter'd,  now  I  shrink  to  see — 

Ob  !  I  have  heart  enough  to  die — 
Not  half  enough  to  part  from  Thee  ! 

OH  TAKINO  LEAVE  OF ,  1817. 

To  know,  to  esteem,  to  love — and  then  to  part. 

Hakes  up  life's  tale  to  many  a  feeling  heart ! 

0  for  some  dear  abiding- place  of  Love, 

O'er  which  my  spirit,  like  tho  mother  dove. 

Might  brood  with  warming  wings  I — 0  fair  as  kind. 

Were  but  one  Hiaterhood  with  you  combined, 

(Your  very  image  they  in  shape  and  miod) 


Far  rather  would  I  sit  in  solitude, 

The  forms  of  memory  all  my  mental  food. 

And  dream  of  you,  sweet  sisters,  (ah,  not  mine  !) 

And  only  dream  of  you  (ah  dream  and  pine  !) 

Than  have  the  presence,  and  partake  the  pride, 

And  shine  in  the  eye  of  all  the  world  beside  ! 




He  too  has  flitted  from  his  secret  nest, 
Hope's  last  and  dearest  Child  without  a  name  !* 
Has  flitted  from  me,  like  the  warmthleas  flame, 
That  makes  false  promise  of  a  place  of  rest 
To  the  tir'd  Pilgrim's  still  believing  mind  ; — 
Or  like  some  Elfin  Knight  in  kingly  court, 
Who  having  won  all  guerdons  in  his  sport. 
Glides  out  of  view,  and  whither  none  can  find  I 


Yes  I  He  hath  flitted  from  me — with  what  aim, 
Or  why,  I  know  not !     'Twas  a  home  of  bliss, 
And  He  was  innocent,  as  the  pretty  shame 
Of  babe,  that  tempts  and  shuns  the  menaced  kisa, 
From  its  twy-cluster'd  hiding-place  of  snow  I 
Pure  as  the  babe,  I  ween,  and  all  aglow 
As  the  dear  hopes,  that  swell  the  mother's  breast— 
Her  eyes  down  gazing  o'er  her  clasped  charge  ;— ^ 
Yet  gay  as  that  twice  happy  father's  kiss, 
That  well  might  glance  aside,  yet  never  miss. 
Where  the  sweet  mark  emboss'd  so  sweet  a  targe — 
Twice  wretched  he  who  hath  been  doubly  blest ! 


Like  a  loose  blossom  on  a  gusty  night 
He  flitted  from  me — and  has  left  behind 
(As  if  to  them  his  faith  he  ne'er  did  plight) 
Of  either  sex  and  answerable  mind 

sibyllii^e:  leaves.  211 

Two  playmates,  twin-births  of  his  foster-dame  :•— • 
The  one  a  steady  lad  (Esteem  he  hight) 
And  Kindness  is  the  gentler  sister's  name. 
Dim  likeness  now,  tho'  fair  she  be  and  good 
Of  that  bright  Boy  who  hath  us  all  forsook  ; — 
But  in  his  full-eyed  aspect  when  she  stood, 
And  while  her  face  reflected  every  look, 
And  in  reflection  kindled — she  became 
So  like  Him,  that  almost  she  seem'd  the  same ! 


Ah  !  He  is  gone,  and  yet  will  not  depart ! — 
Is  with  me  still,  yet  I  from  Him  exil'd  ! 
For  still  there  lives  within  my  secret  heart 
The  magic  image  of  the  magic  Child, 
Which  there  He  made  up-grow  by  his  strong  art 
As  in  that  crystal*  orb— wise  Merlin's  feat, — 
The  wondrous  "World  of  Glass,"  wherein  inisUd 
All  long*d  for  things  their  beings  did  repeat ; — 
And  there  he  leil  it,  like  a  Sylph  beguiled. 
To  live  and  yearn  and  languish  incomplete  ! 


Can  wit  of  man  a  heavier  grief  reveal  ? 

Can  sharper  pang  from  hate  or  scorn  arise  ? — 

Yes  !  one  more  sharp  there  is  that  deeper  lies. 

Which  fond  Esteem  but  mocks  when  he  would  heal 

Yet  neither  scorn  nor  hate  did  it  devise, 

But  sad  compassion  and  atoning  zeal ! 

One  pang  more  bligh ting-keen  than  hope  betray 'd ! 

And  this  it  is  my  woful  hap  to  feel, 

When  at  her  Brother's  best,  the  twin-born  Maid 

With  face  averted  and  unsteady  eyes,    . 

Her  truant  playmate's  faded  robe  puts  on  ; 

And  inly  shrinking  from  her  own  disguise 

Enacts  the  faery  Boy  that's  lost  and  gone. 

0  worse  than  all !     0  pang  all  pangs  above 

Is  Kindness  counterfeiting  absent  Love  ! 

*  Faerie  Queene,  h.  iii.  o.  ii.  b.  19. 




In  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  Author,  thee  ia  ill  health,  had  re- 
tired to  a  lonely  farm-house  between  Porlock  and  Liutou,  on  the  Exmoor 
confines  of  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  In  consequence  of  a  slight  indisposi- 
tion, an  anodyne  had  been  prescribed,  from  the  effect  of  which  he  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair  at  the  moment  that  he  was  reading  the  following  sen- 
tence, or  words  of  the  same  substance,  in  "  Purchas's  Hlgrimage  f  **  Here 
the  Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a  stately  garden  there- 
unto :  and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  inclosed  with  a  walL**  The 
author  continued  for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at  least  of  the 
external  senses,  during  which  time  he  has  the  most  vivid  confidence,  that  he 
could  not  have  composed  less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines ;  if  that 
indeed  can  be  calVed  composition  in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before  him 
as  things,  with  a  parallel  production  of  the  correspondent  expressions,  with- 
out any  sensation  or  consciousness  of  effort.  On  awaking  he  appeared  to 
himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are  here  pre- 
served. At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out  by  a  person  on 
business  from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above  an  liour,  and  on  his  re- 
turn to  his  room,  found,  to  his  no  small  surprise  and  mortification,  that 
though  he  still  retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the  general 
purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the  exception  of  some  eight  or  ten  scat- 
tered lines  and  images,  all  the  rest  bad  passed  away  like  tbe  images  on  the 
surface  of  a  stream  into  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but,  alas  1  without  the 
after  restoration  of  the  latter : 

Then  all  the  charm 
I«  broken— all  that  phantom- world  so  fair 
Vaniflhea,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  mis-sbnpo  the  other.    Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth !  who  scarcely  dar^st  lift  up  thine  eyee — 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  toon 
The  visions  will  return !    And  lo !  he  stays. 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  miiror. 

Yet  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his  mind,  the  Author  has  fre- 
quently purposed  to  finish  for  himself  what  had  been  originally,  as  it  were, 
given  to  him.     Avptov  udiov  uau :  but  the  to-morrow  is  yet  to  come. 

As  a  contract  to  this  vision,  I  have  annexed  a  fragment  of  a  very  differ- 
ent character,  describing  with  equal  fidelity  the  dream  of  pain  and  disease 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Kiian 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 


Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh  !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover  I 

A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  I 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 

Amid  whose  swifl  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 

And  mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ioe  I 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  1  saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 


Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  eaves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 

It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 

With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees  ; 

But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 

My  spirit  1  to  Love  compose, 

In  humble  trust  mine  eyelids  close, 

With  reverential  resignation, 

No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  exprest 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication  ; 

A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest 

That  I  am  weak,  vet  not  unblest. 

Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere 

Eternal  strength  and  wisdom  are. 

But  yester-niglit  I  prayed  aloud 

In  anguish  and  in  agony. 

Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me 

A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 

Sense  of  intolerable  wrong, 

And  whom  I  scorned,  those  only  strong 

Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 

Still  baflied,  and  yet  burning  still ! 


Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mixed 
On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fixed. 
Fantastic  passions  !  maddening  brawl ; 
And  shame  and  terror  over  all ! 
Deeds  to  he  hid  which  were  not  hid, 
Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know. 
Whether  I  sufiered,  or  I  did  : 
For  all  seemed  guilt,  remorse  or  woo, 
My  own  or  others  still  the  same 
f  Life-stifiing  fear,  soul-stifling  shame. 

So  two  nights  passed  :  the  night's  dismay 
Saddened  and  stunned  the  coming  day. 
Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seemed  to  me 
Distemper's  worst  calamity. 
The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 
Had  waked  mo  from  the  fiendish  dream, 
O'ercome  with  sufi^erings  strange  and  wild, 
I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child  ; 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
Such  punishments,  1  said,  were  due 
To  natures  deepliest  stained  with  sin, — 
For  aye  entempesting  anew 
The  unfathomable  hell  within 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view, 
*  To  know  and  loathe,  yet  wish  and  do  I 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree. 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  ? 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need. 
And  whom  I  love,  I  love  indeed. 


*Tis  a  strange  place,  this  Limbo  ! — not  a  Place, 
Yet  name  it  so  ; — where  Time  and  weary  Space 
Fettered  from  flight,  with  night-mare  sense  of  fleeing, 
Strive  for  their  last  crepuscular  half-being  , — 
Lank  Space,  and  scytheless  Time  with  branny  hands 
Barren  and  soundless  as  the  measuring  sands. 


Not  inark'd  by  flit  of  Shades, — uameaning^  thev 

AS  moonlight  on  the  dial  of  the  day  ! 

But  that  is  lovely — looks  like  human  Time, — 

An  old  man  with  a  steady  look  sublime. 

That  stops  his  earthly  task  to  watch  the  skies  ; 

But  he  is  blind — a  statue  hath  such  eyes  ; — 

Yet  having  moon  ward  turn'd  his  face  by  chance, 

Gazes  the  orb  with  moon-like  countenance. 

With  scant  white  hairs,  with  foretop  bald  and  high^ 

He  gazes  still, — his  eyeless  face  all  eye  ; — 

As  'twere  an  organ  full  of  silent  sight, 

His  whole  face  seemeth  to  rejoice  in  light  I — 

Lip  touching  lip,  all  moveless,  bust  and  limb — 

He  seems  to  gaze  at  that  which  seems  to  gaze  on  him ! 

No  such  sweet  sights  doth  Limbo  den  immure, 
Waird  round,  and  made  a  spirit-jail  secure. 
By  the  mere  horror  of  blank  Naught-at-all, 
Whose  circurnambience  doth  these  ghosts  enthrall. 
A  lurid  thought  is  growthless,  dull  Privation, 
Yet  that  is  but  a  Purgatory  curse  ; 
Hell  knows  a  i'ear  far  worse, 
A  fear — a  future  state  ; — *tis  positive  Negation  ! 


Sole  Positive  of  Night  I 
Antipathist  of  Light  I 
Fate's  only  essence  I  primal  scorpion  rod — 
The  one  permitted  opposite  of  God  I — 
Condensed  blackness  and  abpmal  storm 
Compacted  to  one  sceptre 
Arms  the  Grasp  enorm — 
The  Intercepter — 
The  Substance  that  still  casts  the  shadow  Death  I — 
The  Dragon  foul  and  fell — 
The  unrevealable. 
And  hidden  one,  whose  breath 
Gives  wind  and  fuel  to  the  fires  of  Hell ! — 
Ah  !  sole  despair 
Of  both  th'  eternities  in  Heaven  I 


Sole  interdict  of  all-bedewing  prayer, 

The  all-compassionate  ! 

Save  to  the  Lampads  Seven 

Reveal'd  to  none  of  all  th'  Angelic  State, 
Save  to  the  Lampads  Seven, 
That  watch  the  throne  of  Heaven  I 


TO    **  PIBE,    FAMINE,    AND    SLAUGHTER.*'* 

At  the  house  of  a  gentleman,  who,  by  the  principles  aod  corresponding 
Tirtues  of  a  sincere  Christian,  consecrates  a  cultivated  genius  and  the  fiivora- 
ble  accidents  of  birth,  opulence,  and  splendid  connections,  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  meet,  in  a  dinner-party,  with  more  men  of  celebrity  in  science  or 
polite  literature,  than  are  commouly  found  collected  round  the  same  table. 
In  the  course  of  eonversation,  one  of  the  purty  reminded  an  illustrious  poet, 
then  present,  of  some  verses  which  be  tiad  recited  that  morning,  and  which 
had  appeared  in  a  newspaper  under  the  name  of  a  War-Eclogue,  in  which 
Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter  were  introduced  as  the  speakers.  The  gentle- 
man so  addressed  replied,  that  he  was  ratlier  surprised  that  none  of  us 
should  have  noticed  or  heard  of  tlie  poem,  as  it  had  been,  at  the  time,  a  good 
deal  talked  of  in  Scotland.  It  may  be  easily  supposed,  that  my  feelings 
were  at  this  moment  not  of  the  most  comfortable  kind.  Of  all  present,  one 
only  knew,  or  suspected  me  to  be  the  author  ;  a  man  who  would  have  es- 
tablished liimself  in  the  first  rank  of  England's  living  poets,  if  the  Genius 
of  our  country  had  not  decreed  that  he  should  rather  be  the  first  in  the  first 
rank  of  its  philosophers  and  scientific  benefactors.  It  appeared  the  general 
wish  to  hear  the  lines.  As  my  friend  chose  to  remain  silent,  I  chose  to 
follow  his  example,  and  Mr.  ♦*»•*  recited  the  poem.  This  he  could  do  with 
the  better  grace,  being  known  to  have  ever  been  not  only  a  firm  and  active 
Anti-Jacobin  and  Anti-Gallican,  but  likewise  a  zealous  admirer  of  Mr.  Pitt, 
both  as  a  good  man  and  a  great  statesman.  As  a  poet  exclusively,  he  had 
been  amuse<l  with  the  Eclogue;  as  a  poet  he  recited  it;  and  in  a  spirit, 
which  made  it  evident,  that  he  would  have  read  and  repeated  it  with  the 
same  pleasure,  had  his  own  name  been  attached  to  the  imaginary  object  or 

After  the  recitation,  our  amiable  host  observed,  that  in  his  opinion  Mr. 
•••••  had  overrated  the  merits  of  the  poetry ;  but  had  they  been  tenfold 
greater,  they  could  not  have  compensated  for  that  malignity  of  heart,  which 
eould  alone  have  prompted  sentiments  so  atrocious.  I  perceived  that  my 
illustrious  friend  became  greatly  distressed  on  my  account :  but  fortunately 
I  was  able  to  preserve  fortitude  and  presence  of  mind  enough  to  take  up 
the  subject  without  exciting  even  a  suspicion  how  nearly  and  painfully  ii 
bteretted  me. 

*  i^«  pa<«  173. 

vor..  VI F.  K 


What  follows,  is  the  subetaoee  of  what  I  then  replied,  bat  dilated  and  in 
language  less  colloquiaL  It  was  not  my  inteotiou,  I  said,  to  justify  the 
publication,  whatever  its  author's  feelings  might  have  been  at  the  time  of 
composing  it  That  they  are  calculated  to  call  forth  so  severe  a  reprobatioa 
from  a  good  man,  is  not  the  worst  feature  of  such  poems.  Their  moral  de- 
formity is  aggravated  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  which  they  are  capable 
of  affording  to  vindictive,  turbulent^  and  unprincipled  readers.  Could  it 
be  supposed,  though  for  a  moment,  that  the  author  seriously  wished  wliat 
he  had  thus  wildly  imagined,  even  the  attempt  to  palliate  an  inhumanity  s«) 
monstrous  would  be  an  insult  to  the  hearers.  But  it  seemed  to  me  worthy 
of  consideration,  whether  the  mood  of  mind,  and  the  general  state  of  sen- 
sations, in  which  a  poet  produces  such  vivid  and  fantastic  images,  is  likely 
to  co-exist,  or  is  even  compatible  with,  that  gloomy  and  deliberate  ferocity 
which  a  serious  wish  to  realise  them  would  pre-suppose.  It  had  been  often 
observed,  and  all  my  experience  tended  to  confirm  the  observation,  that  pros- 
pects of  pain  and  evil  to  others,  and  in  general,  all  deep  feelings  of  revenge, 
are  commonly  expressed  in  a  few  words,  ironically  tame,  and  mild.  Ilie 
mind  imder  so  direful  and  fiend-like  an  influence  seems  to  take  a  morbid 
pleasure  in  contrasting  the  intensity  of  its  wishes  and  feelings,  with  the 
slightness  or  levity  of  the  expressions  by  which  they  are  hinted;  and 
indeed  feelings  so  intense  and  solitary,  if  they  were  not  precluded  (as  in 
almost  all  coses  they  would  be)  by  a  coustitutional  activity  of  fancy  and 
association,  and  by  the  specitic  joyousness  combined  with  it,  would  assuredly 
themselves  preclude  such  activity.  Patssion.  in  its  own  quality,  is  the  au- 
tagouist  of  action ;  though  in  an  ordinary  and  natural  degree  the  former 
alternates  with  the  latter,  and  thereby  revives  and  strengthens  it.  But  the 
more  intense  and  insane  the  passion  is,  the  fewer  and  the  more  fixed  are  the 
correspondent  forms  and  notions.  A  routiKl  hatred,  an  inveterate  thirst  of 
revenge,  is  a  sort  of  madness,  and  still  eddies  round  its  favorite  object,  and 
exercises  a&  it  were  a  perpetual  tautology'  of  mind  in  thoughts  and  words, 
which  admit  of  no  adequate  substiti^ei*.  Like  a  fish  in  a  globe  of  gloss,  it 
moves  restlessly  round  and  round  the  scanty  circumference,  which  it  can 
not  leave  without  lining  its  vital  element. 

There  is  a  second  character  of  such  imaginary  representations  as  spring 
from  a  real  and  earnest  desire  of  evil  to  another,  which  we  often  sec  in  real 
Ufe.  and  might  even  anticipate  from  the  nature  of  the  mind.  The  images,  I 
mean,  that  a  vindictive  man  places  before  his  imagination,  will  most  often 
be  taken  from  the  realities  of  life:  they  will  be  images  of  pain  and  suiFeriug 
which  he  has  himself  seen  inflicted  on  other  men,  and  which  he  can  fancy 
himself  as  inflicting  on  the  object  of  his  luitred.  I  will  suppose  that  we 
had  heard  at  dilfercnt  times  two  oonimon  sailors,  eneh  speaking  of  someone 
who  had  wrongi*d  or  otfended  him :  that  the  flrbt  with  apparent  violence 
liad  devoted  every  part  of  his  adversary's  l>Kly  and  soul  to  all  th«  horrid 
phiwtoms  and  fantastic  places  that  ever  Queveilo  dreamt  of,  and  this  in  a 
**apid  flow  of  those  outrageous  and  wildly  combined  execrations,  which  too 
oA«n  with  our  lower  classes  serve  for  escape-valves  to  carry  off  the  excess 
nf  their  passions,  as  so  much  superfluous  steam  that  would  endange.*  tha 

APOLOGffTIC  PR£FAO£.  ■     210 

*ca*el  if  it  were  retuned.  The  other  oo  the  oootraiy,  with  Uuit  tort  at 
ealniDeu  of  tone  which  ia  to  the  ear  what  the  paleness  of  anger  is  to  the  eye, 
■hall  limpl;  aay.  "  If  I  chanee  to  be  made  boatawala.  la  I  hope  1  aooo  aball, 
and  can  but  ouce  get  Ibat  fellow  under  my  hand  (and  I  ihall  be  npon  the 
wat«h  for  him),  I'll  tickle  hia  pretty  skint    I  won't  hurt  html  oh  not  HI 

Doly  cut  the to  the  liver  !'     I  dare  appeal  [o  all  present,  which  of  the 

two  they  would  regard  as  the  least  deceptive  symptom  of  deliberate  mi^ 
ligoity  t  nay.  whether  it  would  surprise  tliem  to  see  tbe  first  fellow,  an 
hour  or  two  afterwards,  cordially  abakiDg  hBodg  with  tbe  very  mim,  th* 
fracltoDal  parts  of  whose  body  aud  soul  ha  had  been  so  cbarit)U>ly  disposing 
of;  or  eTCD  perhaps  risking  bis  life  for  him.  What  language  Sbskspeare 
oonsidered  charaeteristic  of  malignant  disposiliun,  we  see  in  the  speech  of 
the  good-natured  Oratiano,  who  spoke  "aa  infinite  dealofnotbing  more  Hun 
any  mail  in  all  Venice;" 

—  >■  Too  wild,  too  rude  sinibold  of  Tolcol" 
the  skipping  spirit,  whoso  thoughts  and  words  reriprocolly  rnn  away  with 
each  other ; 

"Oba  Ihou  dsmn'd,  iDMunble  dog  I 

And  for  Ui;  Ilia  l»  juMiee  ba  usiu«d  r 

and  the  wild  fanaes  that  follow,  contrasted  with  Sbytook's  tranquil  "  1 
stand  here  for  Law." 

Or,  to  take  a  case  more  analogous  to  the  present  subject,  should  we  Itnld 
it  either  fur  or  charitable  to  believe  it  lo  have  been  Dante's  serious  wish, 
that  all  tbe  persons  mentioned  by  biiu  (many  recently  departed,  aud  soma 
even  alive  at  the  lime),  should  actually  sulTer  the  fantastic  and  horrible 
puoiihments,  to  which  be  has  sentenced  them  in  his  Hell  aud  Purgatory  t 
Or  what  shall  we  say  of  the  passages  iu  which  Biohop  Jeremy  Taylor  an- 
ticipates the  state  of  those  who,  Ticious  thcinselvcB.  have  been  the  cause 
of  vice  and  misery  to  their  rellow-crenturca.  Could  we  endure  for  3  uiD- 
Iiieot  to  think  that  a  spirit,  like  Bishop  Taylor's,  burning  with  Clirietiao 
love;  that  a  man  constitution  ally  overfiowing  with  picnsursble  kindliness; 
wbo  scarcely  oven  in  a  casual  illustration  iatroducea  the  image  of  woman, 
child,  or  bird,  but  he  embalms  tbe  thought  with  to  rich  a  tenderness,  as 
makes  the  very  words  seem  beauties  and  fragments  of  poetry  from  Eu- 
ripides or  Simonidei ; — can  we  endure  tn  think,  that  n  man  so  naturnl  and 
■o  disdplined,  did  at  tbe  time  of  composing  this  horrible  picture,  attai^  a 
sober  feeling  of  reality  to  the  phrases  i  or  that  he  would  have  described  in 
the  same  tone  of  Justification,  in  the  same  luxuriant  flow  of  phrases,  the 
tortures  about  to  be  inflicted  on  a  living  individual  by  a  verdict  of  tbe  Star* 
Chamber  t  or  the  still  more  atrocious  sentences  eieeuted  on  tbe  Scotcli  nnti- 
prelatisU  and  schismatics,  at  the  command,  and  in  some  iostasces  under  the 
very  eye  of  the  Duke  of  Ijiuderdale,  and  of  that  wretched  bigot  wbo  after- 
wards dishonored  and  fnrfcited  the  throne  of  Qreat  Britain!  Or  do  we  nut 
rather  feel  and  understand,  that  these  violent  words  were  mere  bubbles, 
flashes  and  electrical  apparitions,  from  tbe  magio  cauldron  of  a  fervid  and 
cbuUient  tiucy,  oonstautlv  fuelled  by  aa  unexampled  upulence  of  Ituiguoga 


Wore  I  now  to  have  read  by  myself  for  the  first  time  the  poem  In  que»- 
tion,  my  oonclusioD,  I  fully  believe,  would  be,  that  the  writer  most  1uit« 
oeen  some  man  of  warm*feelings  and  active  fancy ;  that  he  had  painted  to 
himself  the  circumstances  that  accompany  war  in  so  many  vivid  and  yet  fiui* 
tastic  forms,  as  proved  that  neither  the  images  nor  the  feelings  were  the 
result  of  observation,  or  in  any  way  derived  from  realities.  I  should  judge, 
that  they  were  the  product  of  his  own  seething  imagination,  and  therefore 
impregnated  with  that  pleasurable  exultation  which  is  experienced  in  all 
energetic  exertion  of  intellectual  power ;  that  in  the  same  mood  he  had 
generalised  the  causes  of  the  war,  and  then  personified  the  abstract  and 
cliristened  it  by  the  name  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  most  oftec 
associated  with  its  management  and  measures.  I  should  guess  that  the 
minister  was  in  the  author's  mind  at  the  moment  of  composition  as  com- 
pletely dna^fj^f  uvaifioaapKo^y  as  Anacreon's  grasshopper,  and  that  he  had 
as  little  notion  of  a  real  person  of  flesh  and  blood, 

**  Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb,** 

as  Milton  had  in  the  grim  and  terrible  phantoms  (half  person,  half  allegory) 
which  he  lias  placed  at  the  gates  of  HelL  1  concluded  by  observing,  that 
the  poem  was  not  calculated  to  excite  passion  in  any  mind,  or  to  make  any 
impression  except  on  poetic  readers :  and  that  from  the  culpable  levity, 
betrayed  at  the  close  of  the  eclogue  by  the  grotesque  union  of  epigram 
matic  wit  with  allegoric  personification,  in  the  allusion  to  the  most  fearful 
of  thoughts,  I  should  conjecture  that  the  "  rantin*  Bardie,"  instead  of  really 
believing,  much  less  wishing,  the  fate  spoken  of  in  the  last  line,  in  applica- 
tion to  any  human  individual,  would  shrink  from  passing  the  verdict  evec 
on  the  Devil  himself,  and  exclaim  with  poor  Burns, 

But  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 
Oh  !  wad  ye  talc  a  thought  an'  men ! 
Ye  aiblins  might— i  dinna  ken— 

Still  hae  a  stake— 
I*m  wae  to  think  upon  you  dim, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake ! 

I  need  not  say  that  these  thoughts,  which  are  here  dihited,  were  in  such  a 
company  only  rapidly  su^ested.  Our  kind  host  smiled,  and  with  a  courteous 
compliment  observed,  that  the  defence  was  too  good  for  the  cause.  My  voice 
faltered  a  hltle,  for  I  was  somewhat  agitated  ;  though  not  so  much  on  my 
own  account  as  for  the  uneasiness  that  so  kind  and  friendiv  a  man  would 
feel  from  the  thought  that  he  had  been  the  occasion  of  distressing  me.  At 
length  I  brouj^lit  out  these  words;  "  I  must  now  confej«s,  Sir !  that  I  am 
author  of  that  poem.  It  was  written  s<inie  years  ago.  I  do  not  attempt  to 
justify  my  past  self,  young  as  I  then  was ;  but  as  little  as  I  would  now 
write  a  similar  poem,  so  far  was  I  even  then  from  imagining,  that  the  lines 
would  be  taken  as  more  or  less  than  a  sport  of  fancy.  At  all  events,  if  1 
know  my  own  heart,  there  was  never  a  moment  in  my  existence  in  which 
I  ftho«dd  have  been  more  ready,  had  Mr.  Pitt's  person  been  in  hazard,  to  in 
terpo%e  my  own  body,  and  defend  his  life  at  the  risk  of  my  own  " 


T  have  prefaced  the  poem  with  this  anecdote,  becatue  to  hare  printed  it 
without  any  remark  might  well  have  been  understood  as  implying  an  un 
conditional  approbation  on  my  part,  and  this  after  many  years*  considera- 
tion. But  if  it  be  asked  why  I  re-published  it  at  all,  I  answer,  that  the 
poem  had  been  attributed  at  different  times  to  different  other  persons  ;  and 
what  I  had  dared  beget,  I  thought  it  neither  manly  nor  honorable  not  to 
dare  father.  From  the  same  motives  I  should  have  published  perfect  copies 
of  two  poems,  the  one  entitled  The  Devil's  Thoughts,  and  the  rthcr,  The 
Two  round  Spaces  on  the  Tomb-Stone,*  but  that  the  first  three  stanzas  of 
the  former,  which  were  worth  all  the  rest  of  the  poem,  and  the  best  stanza 
of  the  remainder,  were  written  by  a  friend  of  deserved  celebrity  ;  and  be- 
cause there  are  passages  in  both,  which  might  have  given  offence  to  the 
religious  feelings  of  certain  readers.  I  myself  indeed  see  no  reason  why 
vulgar  superstitions,  and  absurd  conceptions  that  deform  the  pure  faith  of 
a  Christian,  should  possess  a  greater  immunity  from  ridicule  than  stories 
of  witches,  or  the  fi&bles  of  Greece  and  Rome.  But  there  are  those  who 
deem  it  profaneness  and  irreverence  to  call  an  ape  an  ape,  if  it  but  wear  a 
monk's  cowl  on  its  head ;  and  I  would  rather  reason  with  this  weaknem 
than  offend  it 

The  passage  from  Jeremy  Taylor  to  which  I  referred,  is  found  in  his  second 
Sermon  on  Christ's  Advent  to  Judgment ;  which  is  likewise  the  second  in 
his  yesr's  course  of  sermons.  Among  many  remarkable  passages  of  the  same 
character  in  those  discourses,  I  have  selected  this  as  the  most  so.  '*  But 
when  this  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah  shall  appear,  then  Justice  shall  strike, 
and  Mercy  shall  not  hold  her  hands ;  she  shall  strike  sore  strokes,  and  Pity 
shall  not  break  the  blow.  As  there  are  treasures  of  good  things,  so  hath 
God  a  treasure  of  wrath  and  fury,  and  scourges  and  scorpions ;  and  then 
shall  be  produced  the  shame  of  lust  aud  the  malice  of  envy,  and  the  groans 
of  the  oppressed  and  the  persecutions  of  the  saints,  and  the  cares  of  covet- 
ousness  and  the  troubles  of  ambition,  and  the  indolence  of  traitors  and  the 
violences  of  rebels,  and  the  rage  of  anger  and  the  uneasiness  of  impatience, 
aud  the  restlessness  of  unlawful  desires ;  and  by  this  time  the  monsters  and 
diseases  will  be  numerous  and  intolerable,  when  Gkxl's  heavy  hand  shall 
press  the  sanies  and  the  intolerableness,  the  obliquity  and  the  unreason- 
ableness, the  amazement  and  the  disorder,  the  smart  and  the  sorrow,  the 
guilt  aud  the  punishment,  out  from  all  our  sins,  and  pour  them  into  one 
chalice,  and  mingle  them  with  an  infinite  wrath,  and  make  the  wicked 
drink  off  all  the  vengeance,  and  force  it  down  their  imwilling  throats  with 
the  violence  of  devils  and  accursed  spirits." 

That  this  Tartarean  drench  displays  the  imagination  rather  than  the  dis- 
cretion of  the  compounder ;  that,  iu  short,  this  passage  and  others  of  the 
same  kind  are  in  a  bod  taste,  few  will  deny  at  the  present  day.  It  would, 
doubtless,  have  more  behooved  the  good  bishop  not  to  be  wise  beyond  what 
is  written  on  a  subject  in  which  Eternity  is  opposed  to  Time,  and  a  death 
threatened,  not  the  negative,  but  the  positive  Opposite  of  Life ;  a  subject, 
tberelbre^  which  must  of  necessity  be  indescribable  to  the  human  under- 

•  See  pp,  289  292. 


sUnding  in  oar  present  state.  Bat  I  cao  neither  find  n  ir  beliere,  Uud  H 
ever  occurred  to  any  reader  to  ground  on  such  passages  a  fimrge  agaioil 
Bishop  Taylor's  humanity,  or  goodness  of  heart.  I  was  not  a  little  sur> 
prised  therefore  to  find,  in  the  Pursuits  of  Literature  and  other  irorki,  as 
horrible  a  sentence  passed  on  Milton's  moral  character,  for  a  passage  in  hit 
prose  writings,  as  nearly  parallel  to  this  of  Taylor's  as  two  passages  eaa 
well  be  conceived  to  be.  All  his  merits,  as  a  poet,  forsooth — all  the  glory 
of  having  written  the  Paradise  Lost,  are  light  in  the  scale,  nay,  kick  thv 
beam,  compared  with  the  atrocious  malignity  of  heart,  expressed  in  the 
ofienaive  paragraph.  I  remembered,  in  general,  that  Miltoo  had  eoodiided 
one  of  his  works  on  Reformation,  written  in  the  fervor  of  his  youthful  ima- 
gination, ill  a  high  poetic  strain,  that  wanted  metre  only  to  beeome  a  lyrical 
poenL  I  remembered  that  in  the  former  part  he  had  formed  to  hinwelf  a 
perfect  ideal  of  human  virtue,  a  character  of  heroic,  disinterested  seal  and 
devotion  for  Truth,  ReUgion,  and  public  Liberty,  in  act  and  in  suffering, 
in  the  day  of  triumph  and  in  the  hour  of  martyrdom.  Such  spirits,  as 
more  excellent  than  others,  he  describes  as  having  a  more  excellent  reward, 
and  as  distinguished  by  a  transcendent  glory ;  and  this  reward  and  this 
glory  he  displays  and  particularizes  with  an  energy  and  brilliance  that  an> 
nounced  the  Paradise  Lost  as  plainly,  as  ever  the  bright  purple  clouds  in 
the  east  aniiouDoe<l  the  coming  of  the  Sun.  Milton  then  passes  to  the 
gloomy  contrast,  to  such  men  as  from  motives  of  selfish  ambition  and  the 
lust  of  personal  aggrandizement  should,  against  their  own  light,  persecute 
truth  aud  the  true  religion,  and  wilfully  abuse  the  powers  and  gifts  in- 
trusted to  them,  to  bring  vice,  blindness,  misery  and  slavery,  on  Iheir 
native  country,  on  the  verv  country  that  had  trustetl,  enriched  and  honored 
them.  Such  beings,  after  that  speedy  aud  appropriate  renwval  from  their 
sphere  of  mischief  which  all  gix>d  and  humane  men  must  of  course  desire^ 
will,  he  takes  for  grantee!  by  parity  of  reason,  meet  with  a  punishment,  an 
ignominy,  and  a  retaliation,  as  much  severer  than  other  wicked  men,  as 
their  guilt  and  its  consequences  were  more  enormous.  His  description  of 
this  imaginiry  punishment  presents  more  distinct  pictures  to  the  fSancy 
than  the  extract  fri»in  Jeremy  Taylor,  but  the  thoughts  in  the  latter  are 
mcomparably  more  exags^erated  and  horrific  All  this  I  knew;  but  1 
neither  remembcre<l.  nor  by  reference  and  careful  re-perusal  could  discover, 
any  other  meaning,  either  in  Milton  or  Taylor,  but  that  good  men  will  be 
rewarded,  and  the  impenitent  wicked  punishetl,  in  propi^rtion  to  their 
dispiwitions  and  intentional  acts  in  this  life;  and  that  if  the  punishment 
of  the  least  wicked  be  fearful  beyond  conception,  all  words  and  descriptions 
must  be  so  far  true,  that  they  must  fail  short  of  the  punishment  that 
awaits  the  transcondenily  wiekeil.  Had  Milton  stated  either  his  ideal  of 
virtue,  or  of  depravity,  as  an  individual  or  individuals  actually  existing  f 
Certainly  not.  Is  this  representatic»n  worded  historically,  or  only  hypo- 
thetically  ?  Assuredly  the  latter.  D«h*s  he  express  it  as  his  own  wish,  that 
after  death  they  should  suffer  these  tortures  ?  or  as  a  gt-neral  ciHisequence, 
deduced  from  reason  and  revelation,  that  sudi  will  be  their  fat«  t  Again, 
the  latter  only.     His  wish  is  expressly  confined  to  a  spoidy  stop  being  pill 


bv  Providenoe  to  their  power  of  inflicting  misery  on  others.  But  did  he 
name  or  refer  t\>  any  persons  living  or  dead  f  Na  But  the  calumniators 
oi  Milton  dare  say  (for  what  will  calumny  not  dare  say  f)  that  he  had  Laud 
aiid  Straflrord  in  his  mind,  while  writing  of  remorseless  persecution,  and 
the  enslavement  of  a  free  country,  from  motives  of  selfish  ambition.  Now, 
what  ir  H  stern  anti-prelatist  should  dare  say,  that  in  speaking  of  the  in- 
•olencies  01  traitors  and  the  violences  of  rebels,  Bishop  Taylor  must  have 
iudividiuhced  in  his  mind,  Hampden,  Hollis,  Pym,  Fairfax,  Ireton,  and  Mil- 
ton t  And  what  if  he  should  take  the  liberty  of  concluding,  that,  in  the 
aft-erKlesoription,  the  Bishop  was  feeding  and  feasting  his  party-hatred,  and 
with  those  individuals  before  the  Aves  of  his  imagination  enjoying,  trait  by 
vrait,  horror  after  horror,  the  picture  of  their  intolerable  agonies  I  Yet 
this  bigot  woula  ha\e  au  equal  right  thus  to  criminate  the  one  good  and 
great  m-ui,  as  these  men  nave  to  criminate  the  other.  Milton  has  said,  and 
I  doubt  net  but  that  iViylor  with  equal  truth  could  have  said  it,  "  that  in 
his  whole  Tie  he  never  space  a^^inst  a  man  even  that  his  skin  should  be 
graied."  Ha  asserted  this  when  one  of  his  opponents  (either  Bishop  Hall 
or  his  nephew)  had  called  upon  the  women  and  children  in  the  streets  to 
take  up  stones  and  stone  him  (Milton).  Ii  is  known  that  Milton  repeatedly 
used  his  interest  to  protet>t  the  royalists ;  but  even  at  a  time  when  all  lies 
would  have  been  meritorious  against  hiJi,  no  charge  was  made,  no  story 
pretended  that  ho  had  ever  directly  or  indirectly  engaged  or  assisted  in 
their  persecution.  Oh  1  methiuks  there  ai  e  otuer  and  far  better  feelings, 
which  should  be  acquired  by  the  perusal  of  our  grent.  elder  writers.  When 
I  have  before  me  on  the  some  table,  the  works  of  Hammond  and  Baxter : 
when  I  reflect  with  what  joy  and  dearness  their  blessed  spirits  are  now 
loving  each  other :  it  seems  a  mournful  thing  that  their  names  should  be 
perverted  to  an  occasion  of  Uttcrness  among  us,  woo  are  enjoying  that 
happy  mean  which  the  human  tf/O-much  on  both  sides  was  perhaps  neces 
sary  to  produce.  "The  tangle  of  delasions  which  stifled  and  distorted  the 
growing  tree  of  our  well-being  has  been  torn  away ;  the  parasite  weeds 
that  fed  on  its  very  roots  have  been  plucked  up  with  a  salutary  violenoe. 
To  us  there  remains  only  quiet  duties,  the  constant  care,  the  gradual  im- 
provement, the  cautious  imhazardous  labora  of  the  industrious  though  con- 
tented gardener — to  prune,  to  strengthen,  to  engraft,  and  one  by  one  to 
remove  from  its  leaves  and  fresh  shoots  the  slug  and  t)>e  caterpillar.  But 
far  be  it  from  us  to  undervalue  with  light  and  senseless  detraction  the  con- 
scientious hardihood  of  our  predecessors,  or  even  to  oondemn  in  them  that 
▼ehemence,  to  which  the  blessings  it  won  for  us  leave  us  now  neither  temp- 
tation  nor  pretext.  We  ante-date  the  feeling's,  in  order  to  criminate  the 
anthors,  of  our  present  liberty,  light  and  toleration.*** 

If  ever  two  great  men  might  seem,  during  their  whole  lives,  to  hav< 
moved  in  direct  opposition,  thouGfh  neither  of  them  has  at  any  time  intro- 
duced the  name  of  the  other,  &Iilton  and  Jeremy  Taylor  were  they.  The 
former  commenced  his  career  by  attacking  the  Church-Liturgy  and  all  set 
•omif  of  prayer.    The  latter,  but  far  more  successfully,  by  defending  both 

-  The  Friend,  Works.  H.  p.  Oa 


Milton's  next  work  vas  then  against  the  Prelaey  and  the  theo  ensting 
Church-Government — ^Taylor's  in  vindication  and  support  of  them.  Miltoo 
became  more  and  more  a  stern  republican,  or  rather  an  advocate  for  thai 
religious  and  moral  aristocracy  which,  in  his  day,  was  called  repubUcanism, 
and  which,  even  more  than  royalism  itself,  is  the  direct  autipode  of  modem 
jacobinism.  Taylor,  as  more  and  more  skeptical  concerning  the  fitness  of 
men  in  general  for  power,  became  more  and  more  attached  to  the  prat)g»> 
tives  of  monarchy.  From  Calvinism  with  a  still  decreasing  respect  lor 
Fathers,  Councils,  and  for  Church-antiquity  in  general,  Milton  seems  to 
have  ended  in  an  indifference,  if  not  a  dislike,  to  all  forms  of  eoclesiaatie 
government,  and  to  ha\'e  retreated  wholly  into  the  inward  and  spiritual 
church-communion  of  his  own  spirit  with  the  Light,  that  ligfateth  every 
man  that  cometh  into  the  world  Taylor,  with  a  growing  reverence  tttr 
authority,  an  increasing  sense  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  Scriptures  without 
the  aids  of  tradition  and  the  consent  of  authorised  interpreters,  advanced 
as  fiBu*  in  his  approaches  (not  indeed  to  Popery,  but)  to  Roman-Catholicism, 
as  a  conscientious  minister  of  the  English  Church  could  well  venture.  Mil- 
ton would  be,  and  would  utter  the  same,  to  all,  on  all  occasions :  he  would 
tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Taylor  would 
become  all  things  to  all  men,  if  by  any  means  he  might  benefit  any ;  henoe 
lie  availed  himself,  in  his  populai*  writings,  of  opinions  and  representations 
which  stand  often  in  Blriking  contrast  with  the  doubts  and  convictions 
tfxpressed  in  his  more  philosophical  works.  He  appears,  indeed,  not  too 
severely  to  Imve  blnined  that  management  of  truth  (istam  falaitatem  dis- 
peusativom)  authoriieil  and  exemplified  by  almost  all  the  fathers :  Litegrum 
omnino  doctoribus  et  coBtus  Christiani  antistitibus  esse,  ut  doloe  versent, 
falsa  veris  et  imprimis  religionis  hostes  fallant,  dunmiodo 
veritatis  commodis  ct  utilitati  iuserviant. 

The  same  antithesb  might  be  carried  on  with  the  elements  of  their  several 
mtellectual  powers.  Milton,  austere,  condensed,  imaginative,  supporting 
his  truth  by  direct  enunciation  of  lofty  moral  sentiment  and  by  distinct 
visual  representations,  and  in  the  some  spirit  overwhelming  what  he  deemed 
falsehood  by  moral  deuunciation  and  a  succession  of  pictures  appalling  or 
repulsive.  lu  his  prose,  so  many  metaphors,  so  many  allegorical  minia- 
tures. Taylor,  eminently  discursive,  accumulative,  and  (to  use  one  of  his 
own  words)  agglomerative ;  still  more  rich  in  images  than  Milton  himself^ 
but  images  of  fancy,  and  presented  to  the  common  and  passive  eye,  rather 
than  to  the  eye  of  the  imagination.  Whether  supporting  or  assailing,  he 
makes  his  way  either  by  argument  or  by  appeals  to  the  affections,  unsurpassed 
even  by  the  schoolmen  in  subtlety,  agility,  and  logic  wit,  and  unrivalled  by 
the  most  rhctoricid  of  the  fathers  in  the  copiousness  and  vividness  of  his 
expressions  and  illustrations.  Here  words  that  convey  feelings,  and  words 
that  flash  images,  and  words  of  abstract  notion,  flow  together,  and  whirl 
and  rush  onward  like  a  stream,  at  once  rapid  and  full  of  eddies ;  and  yet 
still  interfused  here  and  there,  we  see  a  tongue  or  islet  of  smooth  water, 
with  some  picture  in  it  of  earth  or  sky,  landscape  or  living  group  of  qoiei 


Differing,  then,  so  widely,  and  almoBt  oontrariantly,  wherein  did  thoM 
j^rcat  men  agree  I  wherein  did  they  resemble  each  .other  I  In  geniua,  in 
learning,  in  unfeigned  piety,  in  blameless  purity  of  life,  and  in  benevolent 
aspirations  and  purposes  for  the  moral  and  temporal  improvement  of  their 
fellow-creatures  I  Both  of  them  wrote  a  Latin  Accidence,  to  render  educa- 
tion less  painful  to  children ;  both  of  them  composed  hynms  and  psalms 
proportioned  to  the  capacity  of  common  congregations ;  both,  nearly  at  the 
Bime  time,  set  the  glorious  example  of  publicly  recommending  and  support- 
ing general  toleration,  and  the  hberty  both  of  the  pulpit  and  the  press  I  In 
the  writings  of  neither  shall  we  find  a  single  sentence,  like  those  meek 
deliverances  to  God's  mercy,  with  which  Laud  accompanied  his  votes  for 
the  mutilations  and  loathsome  dungeoning  of  Leighton  and  others! — 
nowhere  such  a  pious  prayer  as  we  find  in  Bishop  Hall's  memoranda  of  ]uf 
own  life,  concerning  the  subtle  and  witty  atheist  that  so  grievously  per- 
plexed and  gravelled  him  at  Sir  Robert  Drury's  till  he  prayed  to  the  Lord 
to  remove  him,  and  behold  I  his  prayers  were  heard :  for  shortly  afterward 
this  Pliilistine-eombatant  went  to  London,  and  there  perished  of  the  plague 
in  great  misery  I  In  short,  nowhere  shall  we  find  the  least  approach,  in 
the  lives  and  writings  of  John  Milton  or  Jeremy  Taylor,  to  that  guarded 
gentleness,  to  that  sighing  reluctance,  with  which  the  holy  brethren  of  the 
Inquisition  deliver  over  a  condemned  heretic  to  the  civil  magistrate,  recom- 
mending him  to  mercy,  and  hoping  that  the  magistrate  will  treat  the  erring 
brother  with  all  possible  mildness ! — ^the  magistrate,  who  too  well  knows 
what  would  be  his  own  fate,  if  he  dared  offend  them  by  acting  on  their 

The  opportunity  of  diverting  the  reader  from  myself  to  characters  more 
worthy  of  his  attention,  has  led  me  far  beyond  my  first  intention ;  bat  it  is 
not  unimportant  to  expose  the  false  seal  which  has  occasioned  these  attacks 
on  our  elder  patriots.  It  has  been  too  much  the  &shion,  first  to  personify 
the  Church  of  England,  and  then  to  speak  of  different  individuals,  who  in 
different  ages  have  been  rulers  in  that  church,  as  if  in  some  strange  way 
they  constituted  its  personal  identity.  Why  should  a  clergyman  of  the 
present  day  feel  interested  in  the  defence  of  Laud  or  Sheldon  ?  Surely  it  is 
sufficient  for  the  warmest  partisan  of  our  establishment,  that  he  can  assert 
with  truth, — ^when  our  Church  persecuted,  it  was  on  mistaken  principles 
held  in  common  by  all  Christendom ;  and  at  all  events,  far  less  culpable 
was  this  intolerance  in  the  Bishops,  who  were  maintaining  the  existing 
laws,  than  the  persecuting  spirit  afterwards  shown  by  their  successful 
opponents,  who  had  no  such  excuse,  and  who  should  have  been  taught 
mercy  by  their  own  sufferings,  and  wisdom  by  the  utter  failure  of  the 
experiment  in  their  own  case.  We  can  say,  that  our  Church,  apostolical 
in  its  faith,  primitive  in  its  ceremonies,  unequalled  in  its  Uturgical  forms ; 
Uiat  our  Church,  which  has  kindled  and  displayed  more  bright  and  burning 
lights  of  genius  and  learning,  than  all  other  Protestant  churches  since  the 
Reformation,  was  (with  the  single  exception  of  the  times  of  Laud  and  Shel- 
don) least  intolerant,  when  all  Christians  unhappily  deemed  a  species  of 
intolerance  their  reli^ous  duty ;  tliat  Bishops  of  our  Church  were  amon^ 



the  first  that  contended  against  this  error ;  and  finally,  thai  stnee  the  Refor 
nation,  when  toleranee  became  a  fashion,  the  Chorch  of  England  in  a  toler 
ating  age,  has  shown  herself  eminently  tolerant,  and  fiu*  more  so,  bolh  in 
spirit  and  in  (act,  than  many  of  her  most  bitter  opponents,  who  profess  to 
deem  toleration  itself  an  insult  on  the  rights  of  mankind  I  As  to  myself 
who  not  only  know  the  Church-Establishment  to  be  tolerant,  bnt  who  see 
in  it  the  greatest,  if  not  the  sole  safe  bulwark  of  toleration,  I  feel  no  neeea> 
sity  of  defending  or  palliating  oppressions  under  the  two  Charleaea,  in  order 
U  exdaia>  with  a  full  and  fervent  ^leart^  Eato  perpetual 


C  H  R  I  S  T  A  B  E  1. 



Facile  credo,  plures  esse  Naturas  invisibiles  quam  viflibiies  in  rerum 
iiniTertitate.  Sed  horum  omnium  famlliam  quia  nobis  enarrabit,  et  g^adus 
et  oognationes  et  discrimina  et  singulorum  munera  ?  Quid  agunt  ?  qusB  loca 
habitant?  Harum  rerum  notitiani  semper  ambivit  ingenium  humanum, 
nunquam  attigit  Juvat,  interea,  non  diffiteor,  quandoque  in  animo,  tan- 
quam  in  tabuli,  majoris  et  melioris  mundi  imaginem  oontemplari :  ne  mens 
assuefacta  hodierme  vitiB  minutiis  se  contrahat  nimis,  et  tota  subsidat  in 
pusillas  cogitationes.  Sed  veritati  interea  invigilandum  est,  modusque 
seryandus,  ut  eerta  ab  incertis,  diem  a  nocte,  distioguamus. 

T.   SUBNET.      ARCHJEOL.  PHIL.   p.   68. 


It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

"  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
''  There  was  a  ship,''  quoth  he. 
**  Hold  off  I  unhand  me,  gray  beard  loon  !*' 
EfbMX)n8  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  wedding-guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

An  ancient  Marl- 
IMMT  meeteth  Uirae 
gallants  biddon  to 
a  wedding  fbaat, 
and  detainelli  ooo. 

The      weddliOk 

guest  is  spell* 
onrid  by  the  ej9 
oftbeold  Ma-far^ 
ing  man,  and  ooo* 
straJnod  to  beai 
bis  tale. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone  : 
He  can  not  choose  but  hear  ; 



rbo  Mariner  M\» 
how  the  ship  sail' 
wl  Bouthwanl 
and  fair  weather, 
till  it  reached  the 

The  wedding- 
gueat  hearetb  the 
bridal  music;  but 
the  manner  cou- 
linueth  his  tale. 

The  ship  drawn 
by  a  storm  tow- 
ard the  south 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man» 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breasli 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  can  not  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

And  now  the  storm- blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertakiiig  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow. 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blaat, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  * 



And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  hy, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifle  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beast  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  her ;,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around  : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  s wound  ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Through  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder  fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through  ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind  ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow. 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play. 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud. 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white. 

Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine. 

*'  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thco  thus  ! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so  ?" — With  my  cross-bow 
\  shot  the  Albatross. 

The  laikl  of  IcWb 
and  <if  feufui 
rounds  wherw  nn 
llTlng  thing  WM 
to  be  Mwu. 

Till  a  great 
bird  called  the 
Albatruev,  came 
throuKh  the  Mioir 
f(«,  aiid  was  re> 
oeived  with  great 
joy  aod  hoapital- 

And  lot  the  At* 
biid  (if  guud 
<>roen,aiKi  follow- 
eih  tlie  ship  as  it 
ward  through  fiig 
iumI  floating  ioa. 

The  ancient  Mark 
ner  inhoapltablj 
kllletb  the  |ilou« 
Mrd      of     guud 



deot  Mariner,  for 

Bat  when  the  fog 
ekMrod  off,  they 
justify  the  saints 
and  thuH  make 
themselves  ac- 
otmplioes  In  I  ho 

The  fair  breezn 
continues  ;  the 
ship  enters  the 
Paciflc  Ocean, 
and  sails  nurth- 
ward.  OTeo  until 
It  reaches  the 

The  ahlp  hath 
been  suddenly 


TiiE  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  *em  woe  : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay. 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head. 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist  : 

Then  all  averred,  1  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

*Twa8  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay. 

That  bring  the  fog  and  nii&t. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew 

The  furrow  followed  free  ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down^ 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sim,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  afler  day,  day  afler  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  : 



begins  to  beafes- 

As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean 

Water,  "water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  0  Christ  I 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  thing^s  did  crawl  with  legs 
TJpon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night  ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were  A  *pVK  **"*  ^^^' 

...  -  lowHl  them ;  «ii« 

Of  the  spmt  tiiat  plagued  us  so  ;  <>r  the  inTiaibie 

Nine  fathoms  deep  he  had  followed  us  this  planet,  neith- 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow.  nor  ange£*;*ooi^ 

earning  whom 
toe  leari'tKl  Jew,  Joeophus.  and  the  Plntonic  Constantinopolitan,  Michael  Pselluis  may 
D(*  C"D8u  ted.  They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  Is  no  climate  or  element  without 
:»xiif  or  mors. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah  !  well  a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

The  shlp^mstes. 
In  their  sore  dis- 
tress, would  fain 
thntw  the  whole 
guilt  on  the  an- 
cient  Marlnfr ;  in 
hang  thtt  dead 
sea-  bird  round 
bis  neck. 


There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye. 



The  ftnefenlBlari- 
nor  behuldtfUi  a 
Mfcn  in  the  el<»- 
UMOt  alkr  ofL 

At  ite  nearer  up- 
proach,  it  seem- 
eth  him  to  be  a 
ahip;  and  at  a 
dear  ransom  he 
freeth  his  speech 
from  the  bonds 
•if  thirst. 

A  flash  of  Jojr ; 

And  horror  fol- 
lows. For  can  it 
be  a  ship  that 
comas  onward 
wiltkout  wind  or 

It  ■eeroeth  him 
but  the  skelcu»n 
of  a  ship. 

Wheu  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck. 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  ueared  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

AVe  could  not  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 

And  cried,  A  sail !  A  sail ! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 
Agape  they  heard  me  call  : 
(rrainercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See !  see  I  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  I 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-fiame. 
The  day  was  well  nigh  done  I 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun  ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  I) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 



Alas  !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?  and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

AnU  Its  ribs  are 
seen  as  bars  un 
the  face  of  the 
setting  Sun.  The 
spectre  -  woman 
and  her  death- 
malefaiid  no  oth- 
er on  board  the 

Like  vessel,  like 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 
*'  The  game  is  done  I  Fve,  Tve  won  I'* 
Q^uoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips  ;  the  stars  rush  out  *. 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
W^ith  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
on*  shot  the  spectre- bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steerman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white  ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  i'ace  with  a  ghastly  pang. 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Death  have  diced 
f.  r  the  nhip^s 
crew,  and  she 
(the  laiter;  win* 
nuth  the  aueieot 

No  twilight  with- 
in the  courts  of 
the  Su*». 

At  the  riaiBg  of 
tlie  Moou. 

Une  after  aoothar 



Ilia   ship- mates 
droD  down  dead. 

bogiiis  h*u  work 
iHi  the  ancient 

Four  times  fifly  living  men 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan), 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump» 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly,- 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  "woe  I 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  mc  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  ! 

The  weddinflT- 
a  apirit  is  talking 
lo  him. 


"  I  FEAR  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  browBi 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea  sand.* 

Bat  the  ancient 
Mariner  aasM  ret  h 
him  of  his  bodily 
life,  and  {mKeed- 
irih  lu  relate  his 
horrible  penance. 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown.*' — 
Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful  ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  L 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea. 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay 

•  For  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanzA  I  am  iiidohted  to  Mr  Wordsworth, 
It  was  oil  a  delightful  walk  from  Notbcr  Stowey  to  Dulverton,  with  him 
and  his  sister,  in  the  autumn  of  1797,  that  this  poem  was  phmoed,  aod  ir 
|tiirt  composed. 

lie  despiseth  the 
creatures  of  the 

And  eoTleth  that 
thev  should  live, 
an«l  so  many  lie 



I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  a6  dry  as  dust. 

1  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

iSeven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

But  the  cane  liv 
eth    fur  him   in 
the   eye   uf  the 
dead  men. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide  : 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

In  hi!  lonellneni 

and  llxediie0«  he 

yearnelh  towarda 

the     Journ«*ylii^ 

Moon,  and    tliu 

Bt-tM  that  still  ^o- 

Jonnii   yet    htili 

move    onward; 

KAil  ervrywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them^  and  is  thnir  appointed  nnt,  and  their 

ijUlv0  country  and  their  own   natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced,  as  lurda 

that  are  certainly  expected,  and  yet  there  is  a  silent  Joy  at  their  arrival. 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay. 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

1  watched  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

By  the  light  of 
the  Moon  h^ 
beholdelh  ImmI*^ 
creaturfw  or  ihe 
great  calm. 


llMir  happiuoM. 

He  Meawth  them 
In  kis  bean. 


Withiu  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire  : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  trmck 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

0  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare  : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart. 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware  : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unavrare. 

TlM  apeU  beglna 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray  ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

Bj  sraee  of  tlie 
lioly  Mother,  the 
ancient  Mariner 
ia  refrwhed  with 


Oh  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  jwle  to  pole  I 
To  Mary  (dueen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Ueaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  mv  limbs : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost 



\ud  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 
It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-Hags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about. ; 
And  to  and  i'ro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleil,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tooU— 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee ; 

He  heareUi 
suiiihU  mid  seeib 
Btrange  nigh  ■ 
and  cumnM>tiuii« 
in  the  eky  niK* 
Um  elemeDL 

The  bodies  of  tiM 
8hlp*8  crew  are 
iiinpired,  aod  the 
thip  rooTee  on 


Bnt  not  by  iie 
■ouls  of  the  men, 
nor  by  demon  4  uf 
earth  or  middle 
air,  but  by  a 
blmsed  troop  of 
•n^Hc  spiriU, 
Ktit  down  by  the 
aT<*catioo  of  the 
jaardiau  saiuL 


The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope« 
But  he  said  naught  to  me. 

*•  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner !" 
Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guept ! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  Hod  in  pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  anna, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouthe. 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  bv  one. 


Sometimes  a-droppiug  from  the  sky 
I  heanl  the  sky-lark  sing  ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  arc. 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angeVs  song. 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafv  mouth  of  June. 

That  to  the  sleeping  woo<ls  all  night 

Siiigeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Y'et  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Movcil  onward  from  l>ciioath 


Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  iniEt  and  biiow, 
The  spirit  slid  :  and  it  waa  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go 
The  sails  at  noon  lcf\  oti'  Ihcir  tune, 
Ami  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean  : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  Btir, 
With  a  shott  uneafly  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  ; 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  bet  i, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  Is  il  he  ?"  quolh  one,  '■  Is  this  tho  mtm  ? 
By  him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

"  The  spirit  who  bidetb  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  suow. 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  tho  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

Tho  other  waa  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  . 

Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance  donci 

And  penance  more  will  do." 

luNg  «iid  liMvy 




rnisT  VOICE. 

But  tell  me,  tell  mo  !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 


Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  I  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 

The  Mariner  bath 
b«»eii  cait  into  a 
tnnco;  for  th« 
fciigelic  power 
cauMlb  the  vw»- 
trsnl  raster  than 
buinan  lile  could 

rmsT  VOICE. 

But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fist, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? 


The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  I  more  high,  more  high  ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated. 

Tbe  supenuunnd 
motion  is  retar- 
ded ;  tbe  5fariner 
awakcfl,  and  his 
penance     begins 

1  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high : 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  dock. 
For  a  charuel-dungcon  filter: 


All  fixed  on  me  their  alony  eyes. 
That  ia  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  thoy  dieil, 
TIad  never  pasEcd  away  : 
1  could  not  draw  ray  eyea  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  tliem  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once  more 

I  viewed  ihe  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one,  that  o 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on. 

And  tnma  no  niuri:  his  head  ; 

Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 

Both  close  behind  him  Ircad. 

But  Boon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  ft  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears. 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

SwifUy,  swiftly  flew  the  Ghi]i, 
Yet  she  sailed  soflly  too  : 
Su'eetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 

The  light-house  top  I  see  ?  imbm^'m. 

Is  this  tho  hill  ?  is  this  Ihc  kirk  ?  ?.^  ."IjIT   "■''"" 

Is  this  mine  o 

"We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  1  will)  »>b»  did  pray — 


kpliiU  leare  ilw 

And  apposr  In 
Ihflr  owu  fcmM 


0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  aiway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glast, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less. 
That  stands  above  tlie  rock  : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 

1  turned  my  eyes  upon  tlie  deck — 
Oh,  Christ  I  what  saw  I  there  I 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  I 
A  man  all  light,  a  scrapli-man. 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  liis  hand 
It  was  a  heavenly  sijrht  I 
They  stood  as  signals  to  tlie  laud. 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice  ;  but  oli  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer  ; 
My  head  was  turned  ]ierlorce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 


The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Bear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 

It  is  the  Hermit  good ! 

He  singcth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 


Tins  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood  '*^«  Hermit  o 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  I 

He  loves  to  talk  with  mariners 

That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  mom,  and  noon,  and  eve- 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared :  I  heard  them  talk, 
"  "Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  I 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?" 

'*  Strange,  by  my  faith  I"  the  Hermit  said —  Approacheth  the 

Ana  they  answered  not  our  cheer  I  <ier. 

The  planks  looked  warped  !  and  see  those  sails, 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

"Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along ; 
"When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she- wolfs  young." 


The  «hip  sadden- 

Tlieaiitieiit  Mari- 
ner is  aaved  in 
Um  PikM^s  boat. 


"  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look-* 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-fearcd" — '*  Push  on,  push  on  !" 
Said  the  Hennit  cheerily. 

The  hoat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 
The  hoat  came  close  heneath  the  ship. 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumhled  on, 
3till  louder  and  more  dread  : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  hay  ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

B'lt  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
"Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  tit ; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes. 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars  :  the  Pilot's  boy, 

Wlio  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

"  Ha  :  ha  !'  quoth  he,  "full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land  I 



The  lieimit  stepped  forth  from  ths  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

**  0  shrieve  me,  shrievc  me,  holy  man  I" 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
**  Say  quick,'*  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  ihee  say- 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?'* 

The  ancient  Mar 
ln«r  eamei»ii> 
entreatclh  ihe 
llcrmii  to  shrieve 
him ;  and  thH 
penance  of  Ufo 
folia  on  him. 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  wofnl  agony. 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale  ; 

And  then  it  Ici^  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns  : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  mo  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  I 
The  wedding-guests  arc  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  : 
And  hark  the  little  vesper-bell. 
Which  biddeth  ine  to  prayer  I 

O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  beeu 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

And  ever  and 
anon  throughout 
bia  future  life 
an  agony  eon- 
Mtraineth  him  to 
travel  from  land 
to  laud. 

0  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast 
Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  i— 


Ami  to  teacb,  by 
lore  and  rever* 
•ooe  to  all  things 
that  God  made 


To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends. 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friendii 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest  I 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  :  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Tunied  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 
Ho  rose  the  mnrow  mom. 



Tat  finit  put  of  the  fuUmiing  poem  was  vTitten  in  the  jrear  119T,  at 
Slowey,  in  the  county  of  Sumerset.  The  Becuutl  port,  aft^r  my  return  from 
GcriDsny,  in  the  ytai  1800,  nt  Keswick,  Cumberland.  It  is  probable,  that 
if  the  pucm  hud  been  fiuinhed  at  cither  of  the  former  periodn.  or  if  eTen  the 
lirst  anil  second  part  hail  been  publielied  ia  tlie  jear  1 SOO,  the  impression  of 
its  originality  would  have  been  much  greater  than  I  dare  ot  preseol  expect. 
But  for  this,  I  hove  only  my  own  indolence  to  blame.  The  dates  are  mention- 
ed for  the  eioIusivB  purpose  of  precluding  cbargca  of  plagiarism  or  servile 
■nutation  from  myselC  Fur  there  ii  amon^pt  us  a  set  of  eritics,  who  aeem 
tn  lioliL  tint  every  possible  thought  and  image  is  traditiooal;  who  have  no 
U'rtii'U  that  there  arc  lueh  things  aa  fountmus  ia  the  world,  small  as  well  aa 
great;  and  who  would  therefore  eharitably  derive  every  rill  they  behold 
flowing,  from  a  pertbratiun  mailo  in  some  other  man's  tank.  I  am  confident, 
however,  that  as  iar  as  the  present  poem  is  coneemcd,  the  celebrated  poet* 
whose  writings  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  imitated,  cither  in  partieular 
passages,  or  iu  the  tone  and  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  would  be  among  the 
lirst  to  vindicate  me  from  the  charge,  and  who,  on  any  striking  Qii'i'^id^n™, 
would  permit  me  to  address  them  iu  this  doggerel  version  of  t4o  ntookish 
L)tin  hezameten. 

I  luive  only  to  add,  tliat  the  metre  of  the  (Tlirislabcl  is  not,  property 
ipeakiug,  irrt^ular,  though  it  may  acem  so  from  iU  being  founded  on  a  new 
principle :  namely,  that  of  couutin^  in  each  line  the  accents,  not  the  sylla- 
bles. Though  the  latter  may  vary  fruiti  seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line 
the  accents  will  be  fomid  to  be  only  four.  Nevertheless  this  occuiooal  t>- 
riatioa  in  number  of  syllables  is  not  introduced  wantonly,  or  fbr  tbo  mere 
ends  of  convenience,  but  in  correspondence  with  tome  transit-ion,  in  the  n» 
lure  of  the  imagery  or  passion. 


'TiS  the  middle  of  night  by  the  culio  clock. 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock  ; 

*  To  Iba  edhloo  of  IHIfl. 


Tu— whit ! ^Tu— whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock. 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoliiic,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour ; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower. 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud  ; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray  : 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle-gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soil  and  low. 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 
But  moss  and  rarest  misletoe  : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 


It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 
But  what  it  is.  ibe  can  not  tell. — 
On  llic  other  side,  it  seems  to  be, 
or  the  huge,  bmad-brcasted,  old  oak-tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare  ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  luoaneth  bleuk  1 

There  ia  nut  wind  eiioitgh  in  the  air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  cnrl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  lo  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanpng  so  high, 

U[i  the  lopmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush!  beating  heart  of  Christabel  I 
Jcsu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak. 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white. 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare  ; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unHandal'd  were. 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

1  guesa,  'twas  frightful  there  lo  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  cxeccdingly  ! 

Mary  mother,  aavc  me  now  ! 

(tjaid  Christabel,)  And  wlin  art  Ihoa? 

The  lady  strange  uiiide  answer  meet 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet  :— 
Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
1  scarce  can  speak  iiir 


Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear ! 
Said  Christabel,  How  earnest  thou  here  ? 
And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet. 
Bid  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet : — 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  jreraldine  : 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind. 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were  white : 

And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescne  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be ; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  fixe, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  wearv  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke : 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak  ; 

He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste ; 

W'^hither  they  went  I  can  not  tell — 

I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand  (thus  ended  she). 

And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  ilee 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine  : 

0  well,  bright  dame  I  may  you  command 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  'withal 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 


She  rose  :  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christ abel : 

All  our  household  arc  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  mo  70  as  if  in  stealth. 

And  I  beseech  your  court/?sy. 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight. 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate  ; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without, 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 

To  the  Lady  by  her  side  : 

Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress  I 

Alas,  alas !  said  Geraldine, 

I  can  not  speak  for  weariness. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court  :  right  glad  they  were 

Outside  her  kennel  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 


And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank. 
The  loily  lady  stood  upright ; 
She  was  most  heautiful  to  see. 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  couiitr^e. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 
All  they,  who  live  in  the  uppei  sky. 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel  I 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  ine  hefel.; 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 
Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yoursolt ;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie. 

(duoth  Christabel,  so  let  it  be  ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  Jay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woo 
So  many  thourrhts  moved  to  and  fro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close  ; 
So  hall- way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Gerald  ine. 


Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed. 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around  ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast . 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view. 
Behold !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side — 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell  I 
0  shield  her  I  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs  ; 
Ah !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers  ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lifl  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 


And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay  ; 
Then  suddenly  as  one  defied 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  aiid  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side  I — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  well-a-day  I 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 

These  words  did  say  : 
In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel  I 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow ; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest. 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare. 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard 'st  a  low  moaning. 
And  S^und'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair ; 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in  love  and  in  chanty 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air. 


It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Chiistjibcl,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak-tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 

To  make  her  gentle  vows ; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest. 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  oh  caJi  it  fair  not  pale. 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  thai,  clear. 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me  I) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 


And  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell 
Awakens  the  lady  Cliristabel 
"  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel  ? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  do^n  by  her  sidt 
O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak-tree  I 
Nay,  fairer  yet     and  yet  more  fair  I 
For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 
And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 
That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  light  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 
"  Sure  I  have  sinned  I"  said  Christabel, 
**  Now  heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well  I" 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet, 
Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 
With  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
}{er  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan. 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown. 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall, 
And  pacing  on  through  page  and  groon. 
Enter  the  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast, 
AVith  cheeri'ul  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  lady  Geraldine  espies, 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same. 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame ! 


But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale, 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leolino  so  pale, 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  agam, 
liord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Trycrmaine  ? 

Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother  : 
They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paiumg^* 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining. 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between  ; — 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder. 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face  : 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Trycrmaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

0  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 

His  noble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage  ; 

He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side, 

He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 

With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 

That  they  who  thus  had  wronged  the  dame 

Were  base  as  spotted  infamy  ! 

*'  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same. 

My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week. 

And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 


My  tourney  court — that  there  aud  then 

I  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 

From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men  !'* 

He  spake  :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls  ! 

For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized  ;  and  he  kenned 

In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend  ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face, 
And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 
Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 
Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 
Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 
The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 
She  shrunk  and  shuddered,  aud  saw  again — 
(Ah,  woe  is  me  !  Was  it  for  thee, 
Thou  gentle  maid  I  such  sights  to  see  I) 
Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old. 
Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 
And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing  sound  : 
•^        Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildly  round, 
And  nothing  saw,  but  his  own  sweet  maid 
With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 


The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away,    w 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest,  (f 

Which  comforted  her  after-rest,  </ 

While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay,  1 

Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast,  ^ 

And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes  * 

Spread  smiles  like  light  ! 

With  new  surprise,* 
"  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ?" 
The  Baron  said — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  "  All  will  yet  be  well  I" 
1  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else  :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 

Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 


Such  sorrow  with  such  grace  she  blended, 
As  if  she  feared,  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christahel,  that  gentle  rnaid  ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  prayed. 
SShe  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

'*  Nay  : 
Nay,  by  my  soul  I"  said  Leoline. 
*'  Ho  !  Bracy,  the  bard,  the  charge  be  tliine  ! 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud, 
And  take  two  steeds  with  trappings  proud. 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov'st  best 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest. 
And  over  the  mountains  haste  along, 
Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad. 
Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 
And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthing  flood, 
My  merry  bard  !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
Up  Knorren  Moor,  through  Halegarth  Wood, 
And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 
Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's  wastes. 

'*  Bard  Bracy  !  banl  Bracy  I  your  horses  are  fleet. 

Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so  sweet, 

More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 

And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 

Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall  ! 

Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free — 

Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 

He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 

With  all  thy  numerous  array  ; 

And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home  : 

And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 

With  all  his  numerous  array 

White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  ibam; 

And  by  mine  honor  I  I  will  say. 

That  1  rej)ent  me  of  the  day 

When  I  spake  words  of  fionje  disdain 

To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryennainu  !— 


— For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown. 
Many  a  summer^s  Bun  hath  shone  ; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  do  Vaux  of  Tr}'ennaine. 


The  lady  fell,  and  clasped  his  knees, 

Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erflowinp ; 

And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 

His  gracious  hail  on  all  bestowing ! — 

"  Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christ abel. 

Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell ; 

Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 

This  day  my  journey  should  not  be, 

So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  ine ; 

That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 

To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest. 

Warned  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 

For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove. 

That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love. 

And  call'st  by  thy  own  daughter's  name— > 

Sir  Leoline  !  I  saw  the  same 

Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan. 

Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 

Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 

I  wonder'd  what  might  ail  the  bird  ; 

For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 

Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath  the  old  tree 

*'  And  in  my  dream  methought  I  went 
To  search  out  what  mieht  there  be  found  ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  peered,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry  : 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stooped,  methought,  the  dove  to  take, 
When  lo  !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coiled  around  its  wings  and  neck, 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched. 
Close  bv  the  dove's  its  head  it  cn>uchud : 


And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stiTB, 
Swelling  its  neck  aa  she  swelled  hers ! 
1  woke  ;  it  was  the  midnight  huiir, 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower  ; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by. 
This  dream  it  would  not  ptiss  away — 
It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye  ! 
And  thence  I  vowed  this  Beir-samo  day, 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  sung 
To  wander  through  the  forest  hare, 
Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there." 

Thus  Bracy  said:  the  Baron,  the  while. 

Half-listening  heard  him  with  a  smilo  ; 

Then  turned  to  Lady  Gerald  inc. 

His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love  ; 

And  said  in  courtly  accenli  fine, 

"  Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland's  beauteous  dove 

With  arms  more  strong  than  harp  or  song. 

Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake !" 

He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 

And  Geraldine.  in  maiden  wise, 

Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes, 

With  blushing  check  and  courtesy  tine 

She  turned  her  from  Sir  Lcoline  ; 

Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 

That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again ; 

And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest. 

And  couched  her  head  upon  her  breast. 

And  looked  asksnce  at  Christabel — 

Jesu  JIaria,  shield  huT  well  ! 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her  head, 
Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent's  eye, 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice,  and  more  of  dread. 
At  Christabel  sho  looked  askance  ! — 
One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled  1 
But  Chrialnbel  in  dixzv  tranoe 
,.  vri,  ■       M 


Stumbling  on  the  unBteady  ground 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound  ; 
And  Geraldine  again  turned  round, 
And  like  a  thing  that  sought  relief, 
Full  of  ivonder  and  full  of  grief, 
She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

K   The  maid,  alas  !  her  thoughts  are  gone 
She  nothing  sees — ^no  sight  but  one  ! 
The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 
1  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 
That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes. 
That  all  her  features  were  resigned 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind  ; 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate  ! 
And  thus  she  stood,  in  dizzy  trance, 
Still  picturing  that  look  askance 
With  forced  imconscious  sympathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be, 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue  ! 
And  when  the  trance  was  o*er,  the  maid 
Paused  awhile,  and  inly  prayed  : 
Then  falling  at  the  Baron's  feet, 
"  By  my  mother's  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  thou  this  woman  send  away !" 
She  said :  and  more  she  could  not  say  : 
For  what  she  knew  she  could  not  tell, 
O'er-mastered  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild. 
Sir  Leoline  ?     Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride. 
So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild  ; 
The  same,  for  whom  thy  lady  died  I 
0  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother 
Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  her.  and  thee,  ani  fur  no  other 


She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she  died  : 
Prayed  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died, 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord*8  joy  and  pride ! 
That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline ! 
And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child. 
Her  child  and  thine  ? 

Within  the  Baron's  heart  and  brain 

If  thoughts,  like  these,  had  any  share, 

They  only  swelled  his  rage  and  pain. 

And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 

His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage. 

His  cheeks  they  quivered,  his  eyes  were  wiliL 

Dishonored  thus  in  his  old  age  ; 

Dishonored  by  his  only  child, 

And  all  his  hospitality 

To  the  wrong'd  daughter  of  his  friend 

By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 

Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end — 

He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  regard 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 

And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere—- 

"  Why,  Bracy  I  dost  thou  loiter  here  ? 

I  bade  thee  hence  !"     The  bard  obeyed ; 

And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid. 

The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 

Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldine  ! 


A  LITTLE  child,  a  limber  elf, 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks, 
That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light ; 
And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 



Itlust  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 
Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other  ; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm. 
To  dally  ivith  wrong  that  does  no  harm 
Perhaps  'tis  tender  too  and  pretty 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(0  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  trud  !) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 
80  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 


'Epug  uei  ?M?.i]dpoc  iraipog. 

In  many  ways  doth  the  full  heart  reveal 

The  presencf  of  the  love  it  would  conceal ; 

But  in  far  more  th*  estranged  heart  lets  know 

Tlie  absence  of  the  love,  which  yet  it  (ain  would  show 



**  One  word  with  two  meaniogs  is  the  traitor's  shield  aod  shaft :  and  a 
tlit  toD^e  be  his  blazon  I"  Caueatian  Pnmerb, 

"  The  Sun  is  not  yet  risen, 

But  the  dawn  lies  red  on  the  dew  : 

Lord  Julian  has  stolen  from  the  hunters  away, 

Is  seeking.  Lady,  for  you. 

Put  on  your  dress  of  green. 

Your  buskins  and  your  quiver ; 
Lord  Julian  is  a  hasty  man, 

Long  waiting  brook'd  he  never. 
I  dare  not  doubt  him,  that  he  means 

To  wed  you  on  a  day, 
Your  lord  and  master  for  to  be, 

And  you  his  lady  gay. 
0  Lady  I  throw  your  book  aside  ! 

I  would  not  that  my  Lord  should  ohide." 

Thus  spake  Sir  Hugh  the  vassal  knight 

To  Alice,  child  of  old  Du  Clos, 
As  spotless  fair,  as  airy  light 

As  that  moonshiny  doe, 
The  gold  star  on  its  brow,  her  sire's  ancestral  crest ! 
For  ere  the  lark  had  lefl  his  nest. 

She  in  the  garden  bower  below 
Sate  loosely  wrapt  in  maiden  white. 
Her  face  half  drooping  from  the  sight, 

A  snow-drop  on  a  tufl  of  snow ! 
0  close  your  eyes,  and  strive  to  see 
The  studious  maid,  with  book  on  knee, — 

Ah  I  earliest-opened  flower  ; 
While  yet  with  keen  unblunted  light 
The  morning  star  shone  opposite 

The  lattice  of  her  bower — 


Alone  of  all  the  starry  host, 

As  if  in  prideful  scorn 
Of  flight  and  fear  he  stay*d  behind, 

To  brave  th'  advancing  morn. 

0  !  Alice  could  read  passing  well, 
And  she  was  conning  then 

Dan  Ovid's  mazy  tale  of  loves, 
And  gods  and  beasts,  and  men. 

The  vassal's  speech,  his  taunting  vein, 
It  thriird  like  venom  thro'  her  brain  ; 

Yet  never  from  the  book 
She  rais*d  her  head,  nor  did  she  deign 

The  knight  a  single  look. 

**  Off,  traitor  friend  !  how  dar'st  thou  fix 

Thy  wanton  gaze  on  me  ? 
And  why,  against  my  earnest  suit, 

Does  Julian  send  by  thee  ? 

"  Go,  tell  thy  Lord,  that  slow  is  sure  : 
Fair  speed  his  shafts  to-day  ! 

1  follow  here  a  stronger  lure, 

And  chase  a  gentler  prey.'* 

She  said  :  and  with  a  baleful  smile 

The  vassal  knight  reel'd  off^ — 
Like  a  huge  billow  from  a  bark 

Toil'd  in  the  deep  sea-trough, 
That  shouldering  sideways  in  mid  plunges 

Is  travers'd  by  a  flash. 
And  staggering  onward,  leaves  the  ear 

With  dull  and  distant  crash. 

And  Alice  sate  with  troubled  mieu 
A  moment ;  for  the  scoff*  was  keen 

And  thro'  her  veins  did  shivei  ! 
Then  rose  and  donned  her  dress  of  green. 

Her  buskins  and  her  quiver. 


There  Btande  the  flow'ring  may-thorn  tre«  I 
From  thro'  the  veiling  mist  you  see 

The  black  and  shadowy  stem  ; — 
Smit  by  the  mn  the  mist  in  glee 
Diuolvea  to  lightMme  jewelry — 

Each  bloBEom  hath  ita  gem  '. 

With  tear-drop  glittering  to  a  smile, 
The  gay  maid  on  the  garden-elile 

Mimics  the  hunter's  shout. 
'  Hip  !  Florian,  hip  I  To  horse,  to  horse  ! 

Go,  bring  the  palfrey  out. 

"  My  Julian's  out  with  all  his  clan, 

And,  bonny  boy,  you  wis, 
For  Julian  is  a  hasly  man, 

Who  comes  lote,  comes  amiss." 

Now  Floiiau  was  a  stripling  squire, 

A  gallant  boy  o{  Spain, 
That  tossed  his  head  in  joy  and  pride. 
Behind  hie  Lady  fair  lo  ride, 

But  blushed  to  hold  her  train. 

The  huntress  is  in  her  dress  ol'green^— 
And  forth  thuy  go,  she  with  her  bow. 

Her  buskins  and  her  quiver  ! — 
The  w|uiTe — no  younger  e'er  was  seen  ■■ 
With  restlesa  arm  and  laughing  een, 

He  makes  his  javelin  quiver. 

And  had  not  Ellen  stay'd  tlio  race. 
And  Btopp'd  to  see  a  moment's  space. 

The  whole  great  globe  of  light 
iiive  the  last  parting  kiss-like  UiiicU 
To  the  eastern  ridge,  it  lack'd  not  lancb 

They  had  o'er ta' en  the  knight. 

It  chanced  that  up  the  eovert  lane. 
Where  Julian  wailing  stood, 


A.  neighbor  knight  pricked  on  to  join 
The  huntsmen  in  the  wood. 

And  with  him  must  Lord  Julian  go, 

Tho'  with  an  anger'd  mind  : 
Betroth 'd  not  wedded  to  his  bride, 
In  vain  he  sought,  'twixt  shame  and  pride. 

Excuse  to  stay  behind. 

He  bit  his  lip,  he  wrung  his  glove, 
He  looked  around,  he  look'd  above, 

But  pretext  none  could  find  or  frame  ! 
Alas !  alas  I  and  well-a-day  I 
It  grieves  me  sore  to  think,  to  say, 
That  names  so  seldom  meet  with  Love, 

Yet  Love  wants  courage  without  a  name ! 

Straight  from  the  forest's  skirt  the  trees 
0*er-branching,  made  an  aisle, 

Where  hermit  old  might  pace  and  chant 
As  in  a  minster's  pile. 

From  underneath  its  leafy  screen, 

And  from  the  twilight  shade. 
You  pass  at  once  into  a  green, 

A  green  and  lightsome  glade. 

And  there  Lord  Julian  sate  on  steed  ; 

Behind  him,  in  a  round. 
Stood  knight  and  squire,  and  menial  train 
Against  the  leash  the  greyhounds  strain  ; 

The  horses  paw'd  the  ground. 

When  up  the  alley  green.  Sir  Hugh 

Spurr'd  in  upon  the  sward, 
And  mute,  without  a  word,  did  he 

Fall  in  behind  his  lord. 

Lord  Julian  tuni*d  his  steed  half  round  .* 
"  What !  doth  not  Alice  deign 

To  accept  your  loving  convoy,  knight  ? 

Or  doth  she  fear  our  woodland  sleight, 
And  joins  us  on  the  plain  ?*' 


With  Uifled  ton«  the  knight  replied, 
And  look'd  askance  on  either  side, — 

"  Nay,  let  the  hunt  proceed  I — 
The  Lady's  message  that  I  bear, 
I  guess  would  soaully  please  your  ear, 

And  less  deserves  your  heed. 

"  Fou  sent  betimes.     Not  yet  unharr'd 

I  found  the  middle  door  ; — 
Two  itirrerfl  only  met  my  eyes. 

Fair  Alice,  and  one  more. 

"  I  came  unlook'd  for :  and,  it  teemed. 

In  an  unwelcome  hour  ; 
And  found  the  daughter  of  Du  Clos 

Within  the  latlic'd  bower. 

"  But  hush  !  the  rest  may  wait.     If  lost, 

No  great  loss,  1  divine  ; 
And  idle  words  will  better  suit 

\  fair  maid's  lips  than  mine." 

"  God's  wrath  !  speak  out,  man,"  Jnlian  cried, 

O'ermaster'd  by  the  midden  smsrt ; — 
And  feigning  wrath,  sharp,  blunt,  atid  rudo. 
The  knight  his  subtle  shift  pursued. — 
"  Scowl  not  at  mo  ;  command  my  skill, 
To  lure  your  hawk  back,  if  you  will, 
But  not  a  woman's  heart. 

"  '  Go  1  (said  sbe)  tell  him, — slow  is  sure  , 

Fair  speed  his  iliafla  to-day  ! 
1  follow  bere  a  stronger  lure, 

And  chase  a  gentler  prey.' 

"  The  game,  pardie,  was  full  in  ught. 
That  then  did,  if  I  saw  aright. 

The  fair  dame's  eyes  engage  ; 
For  turning,  as  I  took  my  ways, 
I  uw  them  lix'd  with  steadfast  gut 
Full  on  hnr  wanton  page'" 


The  last  word  of  the  traitor  knight 
It  had  but  entered  Julian's  ear, — 
From  two  overarching  oaks  between, 
With  glist'ning  helm-like  cap  is  seen, 
Borne  on  in  giddy  cheer, 

A  youth,  that  ill  his  steed  can  guide  ; 
Yet  with  reverted  face  doth  ride, 

As  answering  to  a  voice, 
That  seems  at  once  to  laugh  and  chide—- 
'*  Not  mine,  dear  mistress,"  still  ho  cried, 

"  'Tis  this  mad  filly's  choice." 

With  sudden  bound,  beyond  the  boy. 
See  !  see  !  that  face  of  hope  and  joy, 

That  regal  front !  those  cheeks  aglow  ! 
Tliou  needed'st  but  the  crescent  sheen, 
A  quiver*d  Dian  to  have  been, 

Thou  lovely  child  of  old  Da  Clos ! 

Dark  us  a  dream  Lord  Julian  stood. 
Swift  as  a  dream,  from  forth  the  wood, 

Sprang  on  the  pli<rhted  Maid  I 
With  fatal  aim,  and  frantic  force. 
The  shaft  was  hurl'd  I — a  lifeless  corse, 
Fair  Alice  from  her  vaulting  horse, 

Lies  bleed iiij;  ou  ihe  jrlade. 

THE  KNiaiirS  TOMB. 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn  ? 
Where  may  the  grave  of  that  good  man  be  ? — 
By  the  side  of  a  spring,  on  the  breast  of  Helvellya, 
Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch-tree  I 
The  oak  that  in  summer  was  sweet  to  hear. 
And  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
And  whistled  and  roared  in  the  winter  alone. 
Is  gone, — and  the  birch  in  its  stead  is  grown.—- 
The  Knight's  bcues  are  dust. 
And  his  good  sword  rust ; — 
His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust 




Earth  !  thou  mother  of  numberless  children,  the  nurse  and  the 

llaij     0  Goddess,  thrice  hail !     Blest  be  thou  !  and,  blessing,  I 

hymn  thee ! 
Forth,  ye  sweet  sounds  !  from  my  harp,  and  my  voice  shall  float 

on  your  surges — 
Soar  thou  alofl,  0  my  soul !  and  bear  up  my  song  on  thy  pinions 

Travelling  the  vale  with  mine  eyes — green  meadows  and  lake 
with  green  island, 

Dark  in  its  basin  of  rock,  and  the  bare  stream  flowing  in  bright- 

Thrilled  with  thy  beauty  and  love  in  the  wooded  slope  of  the 

Here,  great  mother,  I  lie,  thy  child,  with  his  head  on  thy  bosom  ! 

Play  fill  the  spirits  of  noon,  that  rushing  soft  through  tliy  tresses. 

Green-haired  goddess  !  refresh  me  ;  and  hark  !  as  they  hurry  or 

Fill  the  pause  of  my  harp,  or  sustain  it  with  musical  murmurs. 

Into  my  being  tliou  murmurcst  joy,  and  tenderest  sadness 

Sbedd*st  thou,  like  dew,  on  my  heart,  till  tlie  joy  and  the  heav- 
enlv  sadness 

Pour  themselves  forth  from  my  heart  in  tears,  and  the  liymn  of 

Earth  !  thou  mother  of  numberless  children,  the  nurse  and  the 

Sister  thou  of  the  stars,  and  beloved  by  the  sun,  the  rejoicer  I 

Guardian  and  friend  of  the  moon,  0  Earth,  whom  the  cometa 
forget  not. 

Yea,  in  the  measureless  distance  wheel  round  and  again  they  be- 
hold thee  ! 

Padeless  and  yonng  (and  what  if  the  latest  birth  of  creation  ?) 

I>ridc  and  consort  of  Heaven,  that  looks  down  upon  thve  en- 
amored ! 

Say,  mysteriouB  Earth !  0  say,  great  mother  and  goddess. 

Was  it  not  well  with  thee  then,  when  first  Ihy  lap  was  iingirdled, 


Thy  lap  to  the  genial  Heaven,  the  day  that  he  wooed  thee  ftnd 
won  thee ! 

Fair  was  thy  blush,  the  fairest  and  first  of  the  blushes  of  mom- 


Deep  was  the  shudder,  0  Earth  !  the  throe  of  thy  Mlf-retention : 

Inly  thou  strovest  to  flee,  and  didst  seek  thyself  at  thy  centre ! 

Mightier  far  was  the  ]oy  of  thy  sudden  resilience  ;  and  forthwith 

Myriad  myriads  of  lives  teemed  forth  from  the  mighty  embrace 

Thousand-fold  tribes  of  dwellers,  impelled  by  thousand-fold  in- 

Filled,  as  a  dream,  iiie  wide  waiters  ;  the  rivers  sang  on  their 

channels ; 
Laughed  on  their  shores  the  hoarse  seas ;  the  yearning  ocean 

swelled  upward  ; 
Young  life  lowed  through  the  meadows,  the  woods,  and  the  echo 

ing  mountains, 
Wandered  bleating  in  valleys,  and  warbled  on  blossoming  branches. 


0,  WHAT  a  life  is  the  eye  !  what  a  strange  and  inscrutable  es 

sence  1 
Him,  that  is  utterly  blind,  nor  glimpses  the  fire  that  warms  him  , 
Him  that  never  beheld  the  swelling  breast  of  his  mother  ; 
Him  that  smiled  in  his  gladness  as  a  babe  that  smiles  in  its  slum 

ber ; 
Even  for  him  it  exists  !     It  moves  and  stirs  in  its  prison  ! 
Lives  with  a  separate  life  :  and — *'  Is  it  a  spirit  ?**  he  murmurs : 
**  Sure,  it  has  thoughts  of  its  own,  and  to  see  is  only  a  language  !*' 


UlTER  the  song,  0  my  soul  !  the  flight  and  return  of  Mohammed, 
Prophet  and  priest,  who  scatter'd  abroad  both  evil  and  blessing, 
Huge  wasteful  empires  founded  and  hallow'd  slow  persecution, 
Soul  withering,  but  crush'd  the  blasphemous  rites  of  the  Pagan 
And  idolatrous  Christians. — For  veiling  the  Gospel  of  Jesus, 
They,  the  be^t  corrupting,  had  made  it  worse  than  the  vilfwt. 


Wherefore  Heaven  decreed  th'  enthusiaHt  wamoT  of  Mecca, 
Choosing  good  from  iniquity  mther  than  evil  from  goodnew. 
Loud  the  tumult  in  Mecca  suTronndiiig  the  fane  of  the  idol  ;- 
Naked  and  prostrate  the  priesthood  were  laid — the  people  v 

mad  shouts 
Thundering  now,  and  now  with  saddeHt  ululation 
Flew,  as  over  the  channel  of  rock-stone  the  ruinous  river 
Shatters  its  waters  abreast,  auJ  in  mazy  uproar  bewilder'd, 
Rushes  dividiious  all — all  rushing  impetuous  onward. 


Hear,  my  beloved,  an  old  Milesian  story  1 — 
High,  and  embosom'd  in  congregated  laurels, 
Gtimmer'd  a  temple  upon  a  breezy  headland  ; 
In  the  dim  distance  amid  the  skyey  billows 
Rose  a  fair  island  ;  the  god  of  flocks  had  plac'd  it. 
From  the  far  shore*  of  the  bleak  resounding  island 
Oft  by  the  moonlight  a  httte  boat  came  floating, 
Came  to  the  sea-cave  beneath  the  breezy  headland, 
Where  amid  myrtles  a  pathway  stole  in  mazes 
Up  to  the  groves  of  the  high  embosoin'd  temple. 
There  in  a  thicket  of  dedicated  roses, 
Oft  did  a  priestess,  as  lovely  as  a  vision. 
Pouring  her  soul  to  the  son  of  Cythcrea, 
Pray  him  to  hover  around  the  slight  canoe-boat. 
And  with  invisible  pilotage  to  guide  it 
Over  the  dusk  wave,  until  the  nightly  sailor 
flhivering  willi  ecstasy  sank  upon  her  bosom. 



A    80L1I.0QUY. 

Unchanged  within  to  bcc  all  changed  without 
Is  a  blank  lot  and  hard  to  bear,  no  doubt. 
Yet  why  at  others'  wanings  should'st  thou  fret  ? 
Then  only  might'st  thou  feel  a  just  regret. 


Hadst  thou  withheld  thy  love  or  hid  thy. light 

In  selfish  forethought  of  neglect  and  slight, 

0  wiselier  then,  from  feehle  yearnings  freed, 

While,  and  on  ^'hom,  thou  may'st — shine  on  1  Qor  heed 

"Whether  the  object  by  reflected  light 

Heturn  thy  radiance  or  absorb  it  quite  : 

And  though  thou  notest  from  thy  safe  recess 

Old  friends  burn  dim,  like  lamps  in  noisome  air. 

Love  them  for  what  they  are ;  nor  love  them  less. 

Because  to  thee  they  are  not  what  they  were. 



A  LOVELY  form  there  sate  beside  my  bed. 
And  such  a  feeding  calm  its  presence  shed, 
A  tender  love  so  pure  from  earthly  leaven 
That  I  unnethe  the  fancy  might  control, 
Twas  my  own  spirit  newly  come  from  heaven, 
Wooing  its  gentle  way  into  my  soul  I 
But  ah  I  the  change — It  had  not  stirr*d,  and  yet — 
Alas !  that  change  how  fain  would  I  forget ! 
That  shrinkmg  back,  like  one  that  had  mistook  ! 
That  wear}',  wandering,  disavowing  look  I 
'Twas  all  another,  feature,  look,  and  frame. 
And  still,  methought,  I  knew,  it  was  the  same  ! 


This  riddling  tale,  to  what  does  it  belong  ? 
Is't  history  ?  vision  ?  or  an  idle  song  ? 
Or  rather  say  at  once,  within  what  space 
Of  time  this  wild  disastrous  change  took  place  ? 


Call  it  a  moment's  work  (and  such  it  seems) 
This  tale's  a  fragment  from  the  life  of  dreams ; 
But  say,  that  years  matur'd  the  silent  strife, 
And  'tis  a  record  from  the  dream  of  life. 


All  look  and  likeness  caught  from  earth. 
All  accident  of  kin  and  birth, 
Hnd  pass'd  away.     There  was  no  traoe 
or  aught  on  that  illumined  face, 
UpTais'd  beneath  the  rifted  stone 
But  of  oue  spirit  all  ber  own  ; — 
fjhe,  she  herself)  and  only  she. 
Shone  thro'  her  body  visibly. 


All  I^ature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their  laJT— 

Tlic  hues  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 

And  Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 

Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  ! 

And  1,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 

Not  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blow, 
Hare  (raced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  0  ye  amaranths !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may. 
For  mo  ye  bloom  not '.     Crliilc,  rich  streams,  away  I 
With  lips  unbrighteued,  wroathless  brow,  I  stroll  : 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  sonl  * 
Work  without  hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve. 
And  hope  without  au  object  cannot  live. 


Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying, 

Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 

Both  were  mine  !     Life  went  a.  maying 

With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woful  when  ! 
Ah !  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  TheQ ! 


This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
0*er  aery  clifis  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along : — 
Like  those  trim  skifls,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weathex 
When  Youth  and  I  liv*d  in*t  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
0  !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old. 
Ere  I  was  old  ?     Ah  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me.  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 

0  Youth  I  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
ril  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be,  that  Thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd  : — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on. 
To  make  believe,  that  Thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size  : 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  I 
Life  is  but  thought :  so  think  J  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning. 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve. 

When  we  are  old  : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave. 



Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist. 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


My  eyes  make  pictures,  when  they  are  shut : — 

I  see  a  fountain,  large  and  fair, 
A  willow  and  a  ruined  hut. 

And  thee,  and  me  and  Mary  there. 
3  Mary !  make  thy  gentle  lap  our  pillow  ! 
Bend  o*er  us,  like  a  bower,  my  beautiful  green  willow ! 

A  wild-rose  roofs  the  ruined  shed, 

And  that  and  summer  well  agree  : 
And  lo  !  where  Mary  leans  her  head, 
Two  dear  names  carved  upon  the  tree  ! 
And  Mary's  tears,  they  are  not  tears  of  sorrow  : 
Our  sister  and  our  friend  will  both  be  here  to-morrow 

Twag  day  I     But  now  few,  large,  and  bright 

The  stars  are  round  the  crescent  moon  i 
And  now  it  is  a  dark  warm  night. 
The  balmiest  of  the  month  of  June  ! 
A  glow-worm  fallen,  and  on  the  marge  remounting 
Shines  and  its  shadow  shines,  fit  stars  for  our  sweet  fountain 

0  ever— ever  be  thou  blest  I 

For  dearly,  Asra,  love  I  thee  I 
This  brooding  warmth  across  my  breast, 
This  depth  of  tranquil  bliss — ah  me  ! 
Fount,  tree,  and  shed  are  gone,  I  know  not  whither. 
But  in  one  quiet  room  wo  throe  are  still  together. 

The  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall. 

By  the  still  dancing  fire-flames  made  ; 
And  now  they  slumber,  moveless  all ! 
And  now  they  melt  to  one  deep  shade  ! 
But  not  from  me  shall  this  mild  darkness  steal  thee  : 
I  dream  thee  wi^h  mine  eyes,  and  at  my  heart  I  feel  thee  I 


Thine  eyelMh  on  my  cheek  doth  play — 

'Tis  Mary's  hand  upon  my  hrow ! 
But  let  me  check  this  tender  lay 

Which  none  may  hear  hut  she  and  thou  * 
Like  the  still  hive  at  quiet  midnight  humming, 
Murmur  it  to  yourselves,  ye  tviro  heloved  women ! 


0  FAIR  is  Love's  first  hope  to  gentle  mind  ! 
As  £ve*s  first  star  thro'  fleecy  cloudlet  peeping ; 
And  sweeter  than  the  gentle  south-west  wind, 
O'er  willowy  meads  and  shadow'd  waters  creeping ; 
And  Ceres'  golden  fields ; — the  sultry  hind 
Meets  it  with  hrow  uplift,  and  stag's  his  reaping. 


I  ASKED  my  fair  one  happy  day, 
What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay  ; 

By  what  sweet  name  from  Home  or  Greece ; 
Lalage,  Neaera,  Chloris, 
Sappho,  Lesbia,  or  Doris, 

Arethusa  or  Lucrece. 

*'  Ah  !"  replied  my  gentle  fair, 

*'  Beloved,  what  are  names  but  air  ? 

Choose  thou  whatever  suits  the  line  ; 
Call  me  Sappho,  call  me  Chloris, 
Call  me  Lalage  or  Doris, 

Only,  only  call  me  Thine."* 


Where  true  Love  bums  Desire  is  Love's  pure  flame ; 
It  is  the  reflex  of  our  earthly  frame, 
Th.'jt  takes  its  meaning  from  the  nobler  part. 
And  but  translates  the  language  of  the  heart. 

*  See  LeasiDg's  lieder.  Die  Namea 



Her  attachment  may  difier  from  yours  in  degree, 

Provided  they  are  both  of  one  kind ; 
But  Friendship  how  tender  so  ever  it  be 

Gives  no  accord  to  Love,  however  refin*d. 

Love,  that  meets  not  with  Love,  its  true  nature  revealing, 

Grows  asham'd  of  itself,  and  demurs  : 
If  you  can  not  lifl  hers  up  to  your  state  of  feeling, 

You  must  lower  down  yDur  state  to  hers. 


That  Jealousy  may  rule  a  mind 
Where  Love  could  never  be 

I  know ;  but  ne'er  expect  to  find 
Love  without  Jealousy. 

She  has  a  stran^o  cast  in  her  ee, 
A  swart  sour-visagcd  maid — 

But  yet  Love's  own  twin-sister  she 
His  hou«r-mate  and  his  shade. 

Ask  for  li'JT  and  she'll  be  denied  : — 
Wh».t  then  ?  they  only  mean 

Their  mistress  has  lain  down  to  sleep, 
Ard  can't  just  then  be  seen. 




Nay,  dearest  Anna  I  why  so  grave  ? 

I  laid,  you  had  no  soul,  'tis  true ! 
For  what  you  are,  you  can  not  have  : 

'Tis  I,  that  have  one  since  I  first  had  you ! 


I  HAVE  heard  of  reasons  manifold 
Why  Love  must  needs  he  hlind, 

But  this  the  hest  of  all  I  hold — 
His  eyes  are  in  his  mind. 

What  outward  form  and  feature  are 
He  gxiesseth  hut  in  part ; 

But  what  within  is  good  and  fair 
He  seeth  with  the  heart. 



OB.  ANNO  DOM.   1088. 

No  more  *twixt  conscience  staggering  and  the  Pope 
Soon  shall  I  now  hefore  my  God  appear, 
By  him  to  he  acquitted,  as  I  hope ; 
By  him  to  he  condemned,  as  I  fear. — 


Lynx  amid  moles !  had  I  stood  hy  thy  hed, 

Be  of  good  cheer,  meek  soul !  I  would  have  said  : 

I  see  a  hope  spring  from  that  humhle  fear. 

All  are  not  strong  alike  through  storms  to  steer 

Right  onward.     What  ?  though  dread  of  threatened  death 

And  dungeon  torture  made  thy  hand  and  hreath 

Inconstant  to  the  truth  within  thy  heart  ? 

That  truth,  from  which,  through  fear,  thou  twice  didst  start, 

Fear  haply  told  thee,  was  a  learned  strife, 

Or  not  so  vital  as  to  claim  thy  life  : 

And  myriads  had  reached  Heaven,  who  never  knew 

Where  lay  the  difierence  'tiiixt  the  false  and  true ! 

Ye,  who  secure  *mid  trophies  not  your  own, 
Judge  him  who  won  them  when  he  stood  alone. 
And  proudly  talk  of  recreant  Berengare — 
O  first  the  age,  and  then  the  man  compare ! 
That  age  how  dark !  congenial  minds  how  rare ! 


No  host  of  firiendfl  vith  kindred  zeal  did  bum ! 
No  throbbing  hearts  awaited  his  return  ! 
Prostrate  alike  when  prince  and  peasant  fell, 
He  only  disenchanted  from  the  spell, 
Like  the  weak  worm  that  gems  the  starless  night, 
Moved  in  the  scanty  circlet  of  his  light : 
And  was  it  strange  if  he  withdrew  the  ray 
That  did  but  guide  the  night-birds  to  their  prey  ? 

The  ascending  day-star  with  a  bolder  eye 
Hath  lit  each  dew-drop  on  our  trimmer  lawn ! 
Yet  not  for  this,  if  wise,  shall  we  decry 
The  spots  and  struggles  of  the  timid  dawn  ; 
J^st  80  we  tempt  th'  approaching  noon  to  scorn 
The  mists  and  painted  vapors  of  our  morn. 






I  NOTE  the  moods  and  feelings  men  betray, 

And  heed  them  more  than  aught  they  do  or  say ; 

The  lingering  ghosts  of  many  a  secret  deed 

Still-born  or  haply  strangled  in  its  birth  ; 

These  best  reveal  the  smooth  man's  inward  creed ! 

These  mark  the  spot  where  lies  the  treasure  Worth ! 

made  up  of  impudence  and  trick, 

With  cloven  tongue  prepared  to  hiss  and  lick, 
Rome's  brazen  serpent — boldly  dares  discuss 
The  roasting  of  thy  heart,  0  brave  John  Hubs  ! 
And  with  grim  triumph  and  a  truculent  glee 
Absolves  anew  the  Pope-wrought  perfidy, 
That  made  an  empire's  plighted  faith  a  lie, 
And  fix'd  a  broad  stare  on  the  Devil's  eye — 


(Pleas'd  with  tho  ^ilt,  yet  envy-stung  at  heart 
To  stand  outmaster'd  in  his  own  black*  art !) 


Enough  of !  we*re  agreed, 

Who  now  defends  would  then  have  done  the  deed. 
But  who  not  feels  persuasion's  gentle  sway, 
Who  but  must  meet  the  profiered  hand  half-way 
When  courteous 

POET.    {Aside.) 
(Rome's  smooth  go-between !) 


Laments  the  advice  that  soured  a  milky  queen — 

(For  "  bloody"  all  enlightened  men  confess 

An  antiquated  error  of  the  press :) 

Who  rapt  by  zeal  beyond  her  sex's  bounds, 

With  actual  cautery  stanched  the  church's  wounds  * 

And  tho'  he  deems,  that  with  too  broad  a  blur 

W^e  damn  the  French  and  Irish  massacre. 

Yet  blames  them  both — and  thinks  the  Pope  might  en 

What  think  you  now  ?     Boots  it  with  spear  and  shielo 

Against  such  gentle  foes  to  take  the  field 

Whose  beck'ning  hands  the  mild  Caduceus  wield  ? 


What  think  I  now  ?     Ev'n  what  I  thought  before  ;— 

What boasts  tho' may  deplore. 

Still  I  repeat,  words  lead  me  not  astray 
When  the  shown  feeling  points  a  different  way. 

Smooth can  say  grace  at  slander's  feast, 

And  bless  each  haut-gout  cook'd  by  monk  or  priest , 

Leaves  the  full  lie  on 's  gong  to  swell. 

Content  with  half-truths  that  do  just  as  well ; 
But  duly  decks  his  mitred  comrade's  flanks, 
And  with  him  shares  the  Irish  nation's  thanks ! 

So  much  for  you,  my  Friend  I  who  own  a  Church, 
And  would  not  leave  your  mother  in  the  lurch ! 


But  wheo  a  liberal  asks  me  what  I  think — 
Scar'd  by  the  blood  and  soot  of  Cobbett's  ink, 
And  Jeffrey's  glairy  phlegm  ami  CoDnor'a  foam. 
In  search  of  some  safe  parable  1  roam — 
An  emblem  sometimes  may  comprise  a  tome  ! 

Disclaimant  of  bis  uoeaught  grandsire's  mood, 

I  see  n  tiger  lapping  kitten's  food  : 

And  who  shall  blame  him  that  he  purrs  applause, 

When  brother  firindle  pleads  the  good  old  cause  ; 

And  frisks  his  pretty  tail,  and  half  uiisbeathes  bis  clai 

Yet  not  the  less,  for  modem  lights  unapt. 

1  trust  the  bolts  and  cross-bars  of  the  laws 

More  than  the  Protestant  milk  all  newly  lapt, 

Impearling  a  tame  wild-cat's  whisker'd  jaws  ! 


From  hia  brimstone  bed  at  brenk  of  day 
A  walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 

To  visit  his  snug  little  farm  the  Earth, 
And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale. 

And  he  went  over  the  plain. 
And  backward  and  forward  ho  switched  his  long  tall 

As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  dreat  ? 

Oh  1  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best : 

His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue. 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came  throngh. 

He  saw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  viper 
Oa  a  dung-hill  hard  by  hia  own  stable ; 


And  the  Deril  smiled,  for  it  pat  him  in  mind 
Of  Cain  and  his  brother  AheL 


He  saw  an  Apothecary  on  a  white  horse 

Ride  by  on  his  vocations ; 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death  in  the  Revelations. 


He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-hoa8e» 

A  cottage  of  gentility  ; 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 


He  pcep'd  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop, 
Cluoth  he  !  "We  are  both  of  one  college ! 

For  I  sate  myself,  like  a  cormorant,  once 
Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.*'* 

*        And  all  amid  them  Btood  the  tree  of  life 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold  (query  paper  money :)  and  next  to  Life 

Our  Death,  the  tree  of  knowledge,  grew  fast  by. — 

♦  »»••♦ 

So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief 

Thence  up  ho  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life 

Sat  like  a  cormorant.  pab.  lost,  iv. 

The  allegory  here  is  so  apt.,  that  in  a  catalogue  of  Tmrious  readings 
obtaine<l  from  collating  the  MSS.  one  might  expect  to  find  it  noted,  that 
for  '*life'*  OxL  quid,  habent,  *' trade.'*  Though  indeed  the  trade,  t.  e. 
the  bibliopolic^  so  called  Kat'  l^oxv^'t  may  be  regarded  as  Life  sensu  emi- 
nentiori ;  a  suggestion,  which  I  owe  to  a  young  retailer  in  the  houery  lin<», 
who  on  hearing  a  description  of  the  net  profits,  dinner  parties,  country 
houses,  ct**.,  of  the  trade,  exclaimed,  "  Ay  1  that's  what  I  call  Life  now  I"— 
This  "  Life,  our  Deatli,"  is  thus  happily  contrasted  with  the  fruits  of  au- 
ih<Hvhip. — Sic  nos  non  nobis  mellificamus  apes. 

Of  this  poem,  which  with  the  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter,  first  appeared 
in  the  Morning  Post,  the  1st,  2d,  3d,  9th,  and  16th  stanzas  were  dictated 
by  Mr.  Southey.    See  Apol<»getic  Preface,  p.  221. 

If  any  one  shcmld  ask  who  General meant,  the  Author  begi  leare 


Down  the  ri»er  did  glide,  with  wind  and  wilh  tide, 

A  pig  with  vast  celerity  ; 
And  the  Devil  looked  wise  as  he  saw  how  the  while, 
It  cuts  its  own  throat.  "  There  I"  quoth  ho  wilh  a  Nuile, 

"  Goes  Englaad'e  cammercial  prospeiily." 

As  he  went  through  Cold-Bath  Fields  he  n 

A  Bolilary  cell  ; 
And  the  Devil  wag  pleased,  for  it  gave  biir 
For  improving  his  prisons  in  Hell. 

He  saw  a  Turnkey  in  a  trice 
Unfetter  a  troublesome  blade  ; 

"Nimbly,"  quoth  he,  "do  the  iingera  n 
If  a  man  he  but  used  to  bis  trade." 

He  saw  the  same  Turnkey  unfetter  a  man 

With  but  little  expedition. 
Which  put  him  in  mind  of  the  long  debate 

On  the  Slave-trade  abolition. 

He  saw  an  old  acquaintance 

As  he  passed  by  a  Methodist  meeting  ;- 
She  holds  a  consecrated  key. 

And  the  Devil  nods  her  a  greeting- 

She  turned  up  her  liose,  and  said, 
"Avaunt!  my  name's  Religiou," 

to  iofbrm  him,  that  be  did  once  Kt  a  rol-fnced  pervm  ia  a  dream  vWm 
by  the  dr*w  he  took  for  a  Oeoeral ;  but  he  might  have  b««n  mittaken.  pnJ 
moat  eertalnlj  he  did  not  hear  any  Domes  mentioned.  In  simplo  verity 
the  aDthor  never  meant  any  one,  or  indeed  any  thing  but  tii  put  a  conclud 
Infi  ■lonia  bi  his  dng^reL 


/  nd  she  looked  to  Mr. 

And  leered  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 


He  saw  a  certain  minister 

(A  minister  to  his  mind) 
Go  up  into  a  certain  House, 

With  a  majority  behind. 


The  Devil  quoted  Genesis, 

Like  a  very  learned  clerk, 
How  **  Noah  and  his  creeping  things 

Went  up  into  the  Ark." 


He  took  from  the  poor, 

And  he  gave  to  the  rich. 

And  he  shook  hands  with  a  Scotchman, 

For  he  was  not  afraid  of  the 

*  *  *  « 


General burning  face 

He  saw  with  consternation, 
And  back  to  hell  his  way  did  he  take, 
For  the  Devil  thought  by  a  slight  mistake 

It  was  general  conflagration. 


See  the  apology  for  the  "  Rre,  Famine,  and  Slaughter,"  p.  221.  This  it 
the  first  time  the  author  ever  published  these  lines.  He  would  hare  been 
glad,  had  they  perished ;  but  they  have  now  been  printed  repeatedly  in  mag* 
asines,  and  he  is  told  that  the  verses  will  not  perish.  Here,  therefore, 
they  are  owned,  with  a  hope  that  they  will  be  taken — as  assuredly  they 
were  composed — in  mere  sport. 

The  Devil  believes  that  the  Jiord  will  come. 
Stealing  a  march  without  beat  of  drum, 
About  the  same  time  that  he  came  last. 
On  au  old  Christmas-day  in  a  snowy  blast : 


Till  he  bids  the  tnimp  sound,  neither  body  nor  soul  stirs> 
For  the  dead  men's  heads  have  slipt  under  their  bolsters. 

Oh  I  ho !  brother  Bard,  in  our  church- yard, 

Both  beds  and  bolsters  are  soft  and  green ; 

tSave  one  alone,  and  that's  of  stone, 

And  under  it  lies  a  Counsellor  keen. 
'Twould  be  a  square  tomb,  if  it  were  not  too  long. 
And  'tis  fenced  round  with  irons  sharp,  spearlike,  and  strong 

This  fellow  from  Aberdeen  hither  did  skip, 
With  a  waxy  face,  and  a  blubber  lip, 
And  a  black  tooth  in  front,  to  show  in  part 
What  was  the  color  of  his  whole  heart. 

This  Counsellor  sweet. 

This  Scotchman  complete, 
(The  Devil  scotch  him  for  a  snake) 
I  trust  he  lies  in  his  grave  awake. 

On  the  sixth  of  January, 
When  all  around  is  while  with  snow. 
As  a  Cheshire  yeoman's  dairy  ; 
Brother  Bard,  ho  !  ho  ! 
Believe  it,  or  no, 
On  that  stone  tomb  to  you  I'll  show 
Two  round  spaces  void  of  snow. 
I  swear  by  our  Knight,  and  his  forefathers*  souls. 
That  in  size  and  shape  they  are  just  like  the  holef 
In  the  house  of  privity 
Of  that  ancient  family. 
On  thobe  two  places  void  of  snow, 
There  have  sate  in  the  night  for  an  hour  or  so. 
Before  sunrise  and  afler  cock-crow. 
He  kicking  his  heels,  she  cursing  her  corns. 
All  to  the  tune  of  the  wind  in  their  horns. 
The  Devil,  and  his  Grannam, 
With  a  snow-blast  to  fan  'em  ; 
Expecting  and  hoping  the  trumpet  to  blow. 
For  they  are  cock-sure  of  the  fellow  below. 




WiiAT  though  the  chilly  wide-mouth'cl  quaokiiig  ehonM 

From  the  rank  swamps  of  murk  Review-land  eroak  : 

So  was  it,  neighbor,  in  the  times  before  us, 

When  Momus,  throwing  on  his  Attic  cloak, 

Komped  with  the  Graces  ;  and  each  tickled  Mase 

(That  Turk,  Dan  Phcebus,  whom  bards  call  divine, 

Was  married  to — at  least,  he  kept — all  nine) 

Fled,  but  still  with  reverted  faces  ran  ; 

Yet,  somewhat  the  broad  freedoms  to  excuse. 

They  had  allured  the  audacious  Greek  to  use. 

Swore  they  mistook  him  for  their  own  good  man. 

This  Momus — Aristophanes  on  earth 

Men  called  him — maugre  all  his  wit  and  worth 

Was  croaked  and  gabbled  at.     How,  then,  should  you, 

Or  I,  Iriend,  hope  to  'scape  the  skulking  crew  ? 

No !  laugh,  and  say  aloud,  in  tones  of  glee, 

*'  I  hate  the  quacking  tribe,  and  they  hate  me  !" 


Since  all  that  beat  about  in  Nature's  range, 
Or  veer  or  vaniah  ;  why  shouldst  thou  remain 
The  only  constant  in  a  world  of  change, 

0  yearning  thought !  that  liv'st  but  in  the  brain  ? 
Call  to  the  hours,  that  in  the  distance  play, 

The  faery  people  of  the  future  day — 

Fond  thought !  not  one  of  all  that  shining  swarm 

Will  breathe  on  thee  with  life-enkindling  breath, 

Till  when,  like  strangers  sheltVing  from  a  storm, 

Hope  and  Despair  meet  in  the  porch  of  Death  ! 

Yet  still  thou  haunt^st  me ;  and  though  well  I  see, 

She  is  not  thou,  and  only  thou  art  she, 

Still,  still  as  though  some  dear  embodied  good, 

Some  living  love  before  my  eyes  there  stood 

With  answering  look  a  ready  ear  to  lend, 

1  mourn  to  thee  and  say — *'  Ah !  loveliest  friend  I 


That  this  the  meed  of  all  my  toils  might  be, 
To  have  a  home,  aa  English  home,  and  thee  !" 
Vain  repetition  I     Home  and  Thou  are  one. 
The  peacefuU'st  cot,  the  moon  shall  shine  upon, 
Lulled  by  the  thrush,  and  wakened  by  the  lark, 
Without  thee  were  but  a  becalmed  bark. 
Whose  helmsman  on  an  ocean  waste  and  wide 
Sits  mute  and  pale  his  mouldering  helm  beside. 
And  art  thou  nothing  ?     Such  thou  art,  as  when 
The  woodman  winding  westward  up  the  glen 
At  wintry  dawn,  where  o'er  the  sheep-track's  maz9 
The  viewless  snow-mist  weaves  a  glist'ning  haze. 
Sees  full  before  him,  gliding  without  tread. 
An  image*  with  a  glory  round  its  head  ; 
The  enamored  rustic  worships  its  fair  hues, 
Nor  knows  he  makes  the  shadow  he  pursues  I 


Ere  the  birth  of  my  life,  if  I  wished  it  or  no, 
No  question  was  asked  me — it  could  not  be  so  ! 
If  the  life  was  the  question,  a  thing  sent  to  try. 
And  to  live  on  be  Yes  ;  what  can  No  be  ?  to  die. 

nature's  answer. 

Is't  returned,  as  Hwas  sent  ?     Is't  no  worse  for  the  wear  ? 

Think  first,  what  you  are  !    Call  to  mind  what  you  were  1 

I  gave  you  innocence,  I  gave  you  hope, 

Gave  health,  and  genius,  and  an  ample  scope. 

Return  you  me  guilt,  letharg}',  despair  ? 

Make  out  the  invent'ry  ;  inspect,  compare ! 

Then  die — if  die  you  dare  ! 

*  Tliis  phenomenon,  -which  the  author  lias  himself  experienced,  and  of 
which  the  reader  may  find  a  description  in  one  of  the  earlier  volumes  of 
the  Manchester  Philosophical  Transactions,  is  applied  figuratively  in  the 
following  passage  of  the  Aids  to  Reflection. 

**  Pindar's  fine  remark  respecting  the  ditTercnt  effects  of  music,  on  differ- 
ent characters,  holds  equally  true  of  Genius  ;  as  many  as  are  not  delighted 
by  it  are  disturbed,  perplexed,  irritated.  The  beholder  either  recognizes 
it  aa  a  projected  form  of  his  own  being,  that  moves  before  him  with  a  gloi^ 
round  its  bead,  or  reooils  from  it  as  a  spectre.*' — AidM  to  JieJle€tion,'WoTkB, 
I  p.  249. 



I  8KEM  to  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having  read  either  in  one  of 
the  ponderous  tomes  of  George  of  Venice,  or  in  aome  other  oompilatioa  from 
the  uninspired  Hebrew  writers,  an  apologue  or  Rabbinical  fnditioii  to  the 
following  purpose : 

While  our  first  parents  stood  before  their  offended  Maker,  and  the  last 
words  of  the  sentence  were  jet  sounding  in  Adam's  ear,  the  guileful  fidte 
serpent,  a  counterfeit  and  a  usurper  from  the  beginning,  presumptuonslv 
took  on  himself  the  diaracter  of  advocate  or  mediator,  and  pretending  to 
intercede  for  Adam,  exclaimed :  "  Nay,  Lord,  in  thj  justice,  not  so  I  for  the 
Man  was  the  least  in  fault  Rather  let  the  Woman  return  at  oDoe  to  the 
dust,  and  let  Adam  remain  in  this  thj  Paradise."  And  the  word  of  the 
Most  High  answered  Satan :  "  The  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel 
Treacherous  Fiend !  if  with  guilt  like  thine,  it  had  been  possible  for  thee 
to  have  the  heart  of  a  Man,  and  to  feel  the  yearning  of  a  human  aonl  for 
its  counterpart,  the  sentence,  which  thou  now  oounsellest,  should  have  been 
inflicted  on  thyself." 

The  title  of  tlie  following  poem  was  suggested  by  a  fact  mentioned  by 
LinnflBus,  of  a  date-tree  in  a  nobleman's  garden  which  year  after  year  had 
put  forth  a  full  show  of  blossoms,  but  never  produced  fruit,  till  a  brandi 
from  another  date-tree  had  been  conveved  from  a  distance  of  some  hundred 
leagues.  The  first  leaf  of  the  MS.  from  which  the  poem  has  been  transcrib- 
ed, and  which  contained  the  two  or  three  introductory  stanzas,  is  wanting; 
and  the  author  has  in  vain  taxed  his  memory  to  repair  the  loss.  But  a  rude 
draught  of  the  poem  contains  the  substance  of  the  stanzas,  and  the  reader 
is  requested  to  receive  it  as  the  substitute.  It  is  not  impossible,  that  some 
congenial  spirit,  whose  yeiu's  do  not  exceed  those  of  the  author,  at  the 
time  the  poem  was  written,  may  find  a  pleasure  in  restoring  the  Lament 
to  its  original  integrity  by  a  reduction  of  the  thoughts  to  the  requisite 

Beneath  the  blaze  of  a  tropical  sun  the  mountain  peaks  arc 
the  thrones  of  frost,  through  the  absence  of  objects  to  reflect  the 
rays.  "  What  no  one  with  us  shares,  seems  scarce  our  own 
The  presence  of  a  one. 


The  best  belov'd,  who  loveth  me  the  best, 

is  for  the  heart,  what  the  supporting  air  from  within  is  for  the 
hollow  globe  with  its  suspended  car.  Deprive  J,  of  this,  and  all 
witbout,  that  would  have  buoyed  it  aloft  even  to  the  seat  of  the 
gods,  becomes  a  burthen  and  crushes  it  into  flatness. 


Tb)  finer  the  sense  for  the  beautiful  and  the  lovely,  aad  the 
Ikirer  and  lovelier  the  object  presented  to  the  eeose  ;  the  more 
exquiaite  the  individual'i  capacity  of  joy,  and  the  more  ample  his 
means  and  opportnaities  of  enjoyment,  the  more  heavily  vill  he 
feel  the  ache  of  BolitarineflB,  the  more  unBubstantial  becomes  the 
least  spread  aiound  him.  What  matters  it.  whether  in  fact  the 
viands  and  the  ministering  graces  are  shadowy  or  real,  to  him 
who  has  not  hand  to  grasp  nor  arms  to  embrace  them  ? 

Imagination;   honorable  aims  ; 

Free  commune  with  the  choir  that  can  not  die  : 

SScienee  and  song;  delight  in  little  things, 

The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man  ; 

Fields,  forests,  ancient  mountains,  ocean,  sky, 

With  all  their  voices — 0  dare  I  accuse 

My  earthly  lot  as  guilty  of  my  spleen, 

Or  call  my  destiny  niggard  I   0  no  !  no  ! 

It  is  her  largeness,  and  her  overflow, 

Which  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  bo  ! 

For  never  touch  of  gladness  stira  ray  heart, 

But  tim'rously  beginning  to  rejoice 

Like  a  blind  Arab,  that  from  sleep  doth  ^tart 

In  lonesome  tent,  1  listen  tor  thy  Voice. 

Beloved  1  'tis  not  thine  ;  thou  art  not  there  ! 

Then  melts  the  bubble  into  idle  air. 

And  wishing  without  hope  I  restlessly  despair. 

The  mother  with  anticipated  glee 

Smiles  o'er  the  child,  that,  standing  by  her  chair 

And  flatt'ning  its  round  cheek  upon  her  knee. 

Looks  up,  and  doth  its  rosy  lips  pteparo 

To  mock  the  coming  Bounds.     At  that  iiweet  sight 

She  hears  her  own  voice  with  a  new  delight ; 

And  if  the  babe  perchance  should  lisp  the  notes  aright. 



Then  is  she  tenfold  gladder  than  before ! 

But  should  disease  or  chance  the  darling  take, 

What  then  avail  those  songs,  which  sweet  of  yore 

Were  only  sweet  for  their  sweet  echo's  sake  ? 

Dear  maid  !  no  prattler  at  a  mother's  knee 

Was  e'er  so  dearly  prized  as  I  prize  thee  : 

Why  was  I  made  for  Love  and  Love  denied  to  me  ? 


Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  pale  citrons  grow. 
The  golden  fruits  in  darker  foliage  glow  ? 
Soft  blows  the  i^ind  that  breathes  from  that  blue  sky  ! 
Still  stands  the  myrtle  and  the  laurel  high ! 
Know'st  thou  it  well  that  land,  beloved  Friend  ? 
Thither  with  thee,  0,  thither  would  I  wend  I 


OR    THE    POET    IN    THE    CLOUDS. 

0 !  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease. 

Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies. 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please, 

Or  let  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 

Of  a  friend's  fancy ;  or  with  head  bent  low 
And  cheek  aslant  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 

'Twixt  crimson  banks  ;  and  then,  a  traveller,  go 
From  mount  to  mount  through  Cloudland,  gorgeous  land  I 

Or  listening  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand 

By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light. 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee 

Rise  to  the  sw3lling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 



'TwA9  my  last  vaking  thought,  how  it  could  be, 
That  thou,  sweet  frieDd,  such  an^ish  shouldat  endure  ; 
When  straight  from  Dreamland  came  a  Dwarf,  and  lie 
Could  tell  the  cause,  forsooth,  and  knew  the  cure, 

Melhought  he  fronted  me  with  peering  look 
Fix'd  on  my  heart ;  and  read  aloud  in  game 
The  loves  and  griefs  therein,  as  from  a  hook  ; 
And  uttered  praise  like  one  who  wished  to  blamo. 

In  every  heart  (quoth  he)  bliicc  Adam's  sin 
Two  Founts  there  are,  of  suffering  and  of  cheer  ! 
That  to  let  forth,  and  this  to  keep  within  ! 
But  she,  whose  aspect  1  find  imaged  here. 

Of  Pleasure  only  will  to  all  dispense. 
That  Fount  alone  unlock,  by  no  distress 
Choked  or  turned  inward,  but  still  issue  thence 
Unconquered  cheer,  persistent  loveliness. 

As  on  the  driving  cloud  the  shiny  bow, 
That  gracious  thing  made  up  of  tears  and  light. 
Mid  the  wild  rack  and  rain  that  slants  below 
Stand*  smiling  forth,  unmoved  and  freshly  bright  ;— 

Aa  though  the  spirits  of  all  lovely  flowers, 
Inweaving  each  its  wreath  and  dewy  crown, 
Or  ere  they  sank  to  earth  in  vernal  showers. 
Had  built  a  bridge  to  tempt  the  angels  down. 

Ev'n  so.  Eliza  !  on  that  face  of  thine. 
On  that  benignant  fare,  whose  look  alone 
(The  soul's  transluoence  thro'  her  crystal  shrine  !) 
Has  power  to  soothe  all  anguish  but  thine  own, 

A  beauty  hovers  still,  and  ne'er  takes  wing, 
But  with  a  silent  charm  compels  the  stern 


And  tort'ring  Genius  of  the  bitter  spring. 
To  shrink  aback,  and  cower  upon  his  urn. 

"Who  then  needs  wonder,  if  (no  outlet  found 
In  passion,  spleen,  or  strife,)  the  fount  of  pain 
Overflowing  beats  against  its  lovely  mound. 
And  in  wild  flashes  shoots  from  heart  to  brain  ? 

Sleep,  and  the  Dwarf  with  that  unsteady  gleam 
On  his  raised  lip,  that  aped  a  critic  smile. 
Had  passed  :  yet  I,  my  sad  thoughts  to  beguile, 
Lay  weaving  on  the  tissue  of  my  dream  ; 

Till  audibly  at  length  I  cried,  as  though 
Thou  had*st  indeed  been  present  to  my  eyes, 

0  sweet,  sweet  sufferer ;  if  the  case  be  so, 

1  pray  thee,  be  less  good,  less  sweet,  less- wise ! 

In  every  look  a  barbed  arrow  send, 
On  those  soft  lips  let  scorn  and  anger  live ! 
Do  any  thing,  rather  than  thus,  sweet  friend  ! 
Hoard  for  thyself  the  pain,  thou  wilt  not  give  ! 




A  PROBi  compoeitiau.  one  Dot  Id  metre  nt  least,  leenia  prima  iiae  td 
require  explaoatioa  or  apology.  It  va>  written  io  th«  year  1798,  near  , 
Nether  Stowej,  in  Somersetiihire,  at  whieh  place  (unetum  et  unalHle 
noineul  rich  by  so  many  usodationi  Bod  r«»llectiaaB)  the  author  had 
taken  up  hii  reeideaoe  in  order  to  oojoy  the  aociety  sad  cloee  ueigbburhood 
of  a  dear  and  honored  friend,  T.  Poule,  Esq.  The  work  vab  to  have  beeu 
wrilteD  in  concert  with  another,  whose  nnnie  is  too  Tcnernble  within  the 
precincts  of  genius  to  be  unoeceesarilj  brought  into  cooDcction  witb  such  ■ 
trifle,  and  who  was  then  residing  at  a  small  distance  from  Nelher  Stowe]r. 
Hie  title  and  subject  were  suggested  by  myself,  who  likewise  drew  out  the 
scheme  and  the  conleots  Tor  eaeh  of  the  three  books  or  cantos,  of  which 
the  work  was  to  eonaist.  and  wliich,  the  reader  is  to  be  informed,  was  to 
have  been  finished  in  one  nij^htl  My  partner  undertook  the  lirst  eaoto:  I 
the  second :  and  whichever  had  done  first,  was  to  set  about  the  third 
A]in<«t  thirty  years  have  passed  by ;  yet  at  this  moment  I  can  not  witiiout 
Humething  more  than  a  smile  moot  the  question  which  of  the  two  things 
was  the  most  impracticable,  for  a  mind  so  eminently  original  to  oompose 
another  man's  thoughts  and  fiuicied,  or  for  a  taste  so  austerely  pure  and 
simple  t<i  imitate  the  Death  of  Abel )  Methinks  I  see  bis  grand  and  noble 
countenance  as  st  the  momeot  wheu  having  despatched  my  own  portion  of 
the  task  at  full  Sngcr-epeed,  I  hoHteunl  to  him  with  my  manuseript — that 
look  of  humorous  despondency  liied  on  his  ahnost  blank  sheet  of  paper, 
and  then  its  silent  mock-pit^nua  admission  of  failure  etruggliug  witli  the 
si-use  of  the  exceeding  ridiculousness  of  the  whole  scheme — which  broke  up 
in  a  laugh:  and  the  Ancient  Manner  was  written  instead 

Years  afterward,  however,  the  draft  of  the  plan  and  proposed  incidents, 
and  tlie  portion  executed,  obtained  favor  in  the  eyes  of  more  than  one  per- 
son, whoee  judgment  on  a  poetic  work  eould  not  but  have  weired  with 
me.  even  though  no  parental  partiality  had  been  thrown  into  the  same 
scale,  as  a  make-weight:  and  I  determined  on  commencing  anew,  and  oam- 
poaing  the  whole  in  stanzas,  and  made  sume  progress  in  realizing  thit 
iutcution,  when  adverse  gales  drove  my  bnrk  oflf  Ihe  "Fortunate  Isles""  of 
the  Uuses;  and  then  other  and  more  monieutoui  interests  prompted  a  dif- 
ferent voyage,  to  Srmer  anchorBge  and  a  securer  port.  1  have  in  vain 
tried  to  reeovcr  the  lines  from  the  palimpsest  tablet  of  my  memory  :  and  1 
ou.  Duly  offer  the  iotroductorj  stansa,  which  had  been  committed  to  writ 


log  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  friend's  judgment  on  the  metres  m  • 

Encinctured  v^'iih  a  twine  of  leaves^ 

That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress  1 

A  lovely  Boy  was  plucking  fruits, 

By  moonlight,  in  a  wilderness.  * 

The  moon  was  bright,  the  air  was  free. 

And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew 

On  nmny  a  shrub  and  many  a  tree : 

And  all  put  on  a  gentle  hue, 

Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 

Like  a  picture  rich  and  rare. 

It  was  a  climate  where,  they  say. 

The  night  is  more  belov'd  than  day. 

But  who  that  beauteous  Boy  boguird. 

That  beauteous  Boy  to  linger  here  t 

Alone,  by  night,  a  little  child. 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild — 

Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  mother  near  t 


"  A  LITTLE  further,  0  my  father,  yet  a  little  further,  and  w« 
shall  come  iuto  the  open  moonlight."  Their  road  vas  through 
a  forest  of  fir-trees ;  at  its  entrance  the  trees  stood  at  distances 
from  each  other,  and  the  path  was  broad,  aud  the  moonlight  and 
the  moonlight  shadows  reposed  upon  it,  and  ap[)eared  quietly  to 
inhabit  that  solitude.  But  soon  the  path  wmded  and  became 
narrow ;  the  sun  at  high  noon  sometimes  speckled,  but  never 
illumined  it,  and  now  it  was  dark  as  a  cavern. 

**  It  is  dark,  0  my  father  1'  said  Enos,  **  but  the  path  under 
our  feet  is  smooth  and  soft,  and  we  shall  soon  come  out  into  the 
open  moonlight." 

"  Lead  on,  my  child  I''  said  Cain  :  *'  guide  me,  little  child !" 
And  the  innoceiit  little  child  clasped  a  finger  of  the  hand  which 
had  murdered  ih^  righteous  Abel,  and  he  guided  his  father. 
"  The  fir  branches  drip  upon  thee,  my  son."  **  Yea,  pleasantly, 
father,  for  I  ran  fa;;t  and  eagerly  to  bring  thee  the  pitcher  and 
the  cake,  and  my  body  is  not  yet  cool.  How  happy  the  squir- 
rels are  that  feed  on  these  fir-trees  I  they  leap  from  bough  to 
boo^h,  and  the  old  Si^uirrels  play  round  their  young  ones  in  the 
nest.  I  clomb  a  tree  yesterday  at  noon,  0  my  lather,  that  I 
might  play  with  them  hut  they  leaped  away  from  the  branches. 


even  to  the  slender  twigs  did  they  leap,  sud  in  a  moment  I 
beheld  them  on  another  tree.  Why,  0  my  father,  would  they 
not  play  with  me  ?  I  would  be  good  to  thtsm  as  thou  art  good  to 
mc :  and  I  groaned  to  them  even  as  thou  groanest  when  thou 
flivest  me  to  eat,  and  when  thou  coverest  me  at  evening,  and  as 
often  as  I  stand  at  thy  knee  and  thine  eyes  look  at  me  7"  Then 
Cain  stopped,  and  stifling  his  groans  lie  sank  to  the  earth,  and 
the  child  Enos  stood  iu  the  darkness  beside  him. 

And  Cain  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  bitterly,  and  said, 
"  The  Mighty  One  that  petseculeth  me  is  on  this  side  and  on 
that ;  he  pureuoth  my  soul  like  the  wind,  like  the  sand-blast  he 
passeth  through  me  ;  he  is  around  me  even  as  the  air !  0  that 
I  might  bo  utterly  no  more !  I  desire  to  die — yea,  the  things  that 
never  had  life,  neither  move  they  upon  the  earth — behold !  they 
seem  precious  to  mine  eyes.  0  that  a  man  might  live  without 
the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  So  1  might  abide  in  darkness,  and 
blackness,  and  an  empty  space !  Yea,  I  would  lie  down,  I  would 
not  rise,  neither  would  I  stir  my  limbs  till  I  became  as  the  rock 
in  the  den  of  the  lion,  on  which  the  young  lion  resteth  his  head 
whilst  he  sleepeth.  For  the  torrent  tbat  roareth  far  olT  hath  a 
voice :  and  the  elouds  in  heaven  look  terribly  on  me  ;  the  Mighty 
One  who  is  againet  me  speaketh  in  the  wind  of  the  cedar  grove ; 
«nd  in  silence  am  1  dried  up,"  Then  Enos  spake  to  his  father, 
"  Arise,  my  father,  arise,  we  arc  but  a  little  way  from  the  place 
where  1  found  the  cake  and  the  pitcher."  And  Cain  said,  "How 
knowest  thou?"  and  the  child  answered — "Behold  the  bare 
rocks  are  a  few  of  thy  strides  distant  from  the  forest  ;  and  while 
even  now  thou  wcrt  lifting  up  thy  voice,  I  heard  the  echo." 
Then  the  child  took  hold  of  his  father,  as  if  be  would  raise  him  : 
and  Cain  being  faint  and  feeble  rose  slowly  on  his  knees  and 
pressed  himself  against  the  trunk  of  a  fir,  and  stood  upright  and 
followed  the  child. 

The  path  wag  dark  till  within  three  strides'  length  of  its  ter- 
mination, when  it  turned  suddenly ;  the  thick  blaok  trees  formed 
a  low  arch,  and  the  moonlight  appeared  for  a  moment  like  a 
dazzling  portal.  Enos  ran  befure  and  stood  in  the  open  air ;  and 
when  Cain,  his  father,  eiiiergeil  from  the  darkness,  the  child  was 
atTrighted.  For  the  mighty  limbs  of  Cain  were  wanted  as  by 
fire ;  his  hair  was  as  the  matted  curls  on  the  bison's  forehead, 
and  so  glared  his  fierce  and  sullen  eye  beneath :  and  the  blaelt 


abundant  locks  on  either  side,  a  rank  and  tangled  mass,  were 
stained  and  scorched,  as  though  the  grasp  of  a  burning  iron  hand 
had  striven  to  rend  them  ;  and  his  countenance  told  in  a  strange 
and  terrible  language  of  agonies  that  had  been,  and  were,  and 
were  still  to  continue  to  be. 

The  scene  around  was  desolate  ;  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
it  was  desolate  :  the  bare  rocks  faced  each  other,  and  left  a  long 
and  wide  interval  of  thin  white  sand.     You  might  wander  on 
and  look  round  and  round,  and  peep  into  the  crevices  of  the 
rocks  and  discover  nothing  that  acknowledged  the  influence  of 
the  seasons.     There  was  no  spring,  no  summer,  no  autumn  :  and 
the  winter's  snow,  that  would  have  been  lovely,  fell  not  on  these 
hot  rocks  and  scorching  sands.     Never  morning  lark  had  poised 
himself  over  this  desert ;  but  the  huge  serpent  oflen  hissed  there 
beneath  the  talons  of  the  vulture,  and  the  vulture  screamed,  his 
wings  imprisoned  within  the  coils  of  the  serpent.     The  pointed 
and  shattered  summits  of  the  ridges  of  the  rocks  made  a  rude 
mimicry  of  human  concerns,  and  seemed  to  prophesy  mutely  of 
things  that  then  were  not ;  steeples,  and  battlements,  and  ships 
with  naked  masts.    As  far  from  the  wood  as  a  boy  might  sling  a 
pebble  of  the  brook,  there  was  one  rock  by  itself  at  a  small  dis- 
tance from  the  main  ridge.    It  had  been  precipitated  there  perhaps 
by  the  groan  which  the  Earth  uttered  when  our  first  father  fell. 
Before  you  approached,  it  appeared  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground,  but 
its  base  slanted  from  its  point,  and  between  its  points  and  the 
sands  a  tall  man  might  stand  upright.     It  was  here  that   Enos 
had  found  the  pitcher  and  cake,  and  to  this  place  he  led  his 
father.    But  ere  they  had  reached  the  rock  they  beheld  a  human 
shape  :  his  back  was  towards  them,  and  thoy  were  advancing 
unperceived,  when  they  heard  him  smite   his   breast   and  cry 
aloud,  "  Woe  is  me  I  woe  is  me  I  I  must  never  die  again,  and 
yet  I  am  perishing  with  thirst  and  hunger." 

Pallid,  as  the  reflection  of  the  sheeted  lightning  on  the  heavy- 
sailing  night-cloud,  became  the  face  of  Cain  ;  but  the  child  Eno9 
took  hold  of  the  shaggy  skin,  his  father's  robe,  and  raised  his 
eyes  to  his  father,  and  listening,  whispered,  "  Ere  yet  I  could 
speak,  I  am  sure,  0  my  father,  that  ^  heard  that  voice.  Have 
not  I  often  said  that  I  remembered  a  sweet  voice  1  0  my  father  I 
this  is  it :''  and  Cain  trembled  exceedingly.  The  voice  was  sweet 
indaad  but  it  was  thin  and  querulous,  like  that  of  a  feeble  slave 


in  miMry,  ^ho  deapaira  altogether,  yet  cut  not  r«fraia  himeeli 
from  weeping  and  lamentation.  And,  behold  I  Enos  glided  for- 
ward, and  creeping  softly  round  the  base  of  tha  rook,  Stood  before 
the  stranger,  and  looked  up  into  his  face.  And  the  Shape  shrieked, 
and  turned  round,  and  Cain  beheld  him,  that  his  limbs  and  his 
face  'wera  those  of  his  brother  Abel  tvhom  he  had  killed  !  And 
Cain  stood  like  one  who  struggles  in  hia  steep  because  of  the  ex- 
ceeding terrible ness  of  a  dream. 

Thus  as  he  stood  in  silence  and  darkness  of  soul,  the  Shape  fell 
at  his  feet,  and  embraced  his  knees,  and  cried  out  with  a  bitter 
outcry,  "  Thou  eldest  tiorn  of  Adam,  whom  E^e,  my  mother, 
brought  forth,  cease  to  torment  me  !  1  was  feeding  my  flocks  in 
green  pastures  by  the  side  of  quiet  rivers,  and  thou  killedst  me  ; 
and  now  1  am  in  misery,"  Then  Cain  closed  his  eyes,  and  hid 
them  with  his  hands;  and  again  ho  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked 
around  him,  and  said  to  Enos,  "  What  beholdest  thou  ?  Bidst 
thou  hear  a  voice,  my  son  ?"  "  Yes,  my  father,  I  beheld  a  man 
in  unclean  garments,  and  he  uttered  a  sweet  voice,  full  of  lamen- 
tation." Then  Cain  raised  up  the  Shape  that  was  like  Abel,  and 
said  : — "  The  Creator  of  oar  father,  who  had  respect  unto  thee 
and  unto  thy  o^ering,  wherefore  hath  he  forsaken  thee  V  Then 
the  Shape  shrieked  a  second  time,  and  rent  his  garment,  and  his 
naked  skin  was  like  the  white  sands  beneath  their  feet ;  and  he 
shrieked  yet  a  third  time,  and  threw  himself  on  his  face  upon 
the  sand  that  was  black  with  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  and  Cain 
and  Enos  sat  beside  him  ;  the  child  by  his  right  hand,  and  Cain 
by  his  left.  They  were  all  three  nnder  the  rock,  and  within  the 
shadow.  The  Shape  that  was  like  Ahel  raised  himself  up,  and 
spake  to  the  child :  "  1  know  where  the  cold  waters  are,  but  I 
may  not  drink,  wherefore  didst  thou  then  take  away  my  pitcher  ?" 
But  Cain  said,  "  Didst  thou  not  find  favor  in  the  sight  of  the  Lonl 
thy  God  V  The  Shape  answered,  "  The  Lord  is  God  of  the  liv- 
ing only,  the  dead  have  another  God."  Then  the  child  Enos 
lifted  up  his  eyes  and  prayed  ;  but  Cain  rejoiced  secretly  in  his 
heart.  "  Wretched  shall  they  be  all  the  days  of  their  mortal 
life,"  exclaimed  the  Shape,  "  who  sacrifice  worthy  and  accepta- 
ble sacrifices  to  the  God  of  the  dead  ;  but  after  death  their  toil 
ceaseth.  Woe  is  me,  for  1  was  well  beloved  by  the  God  of  tha 
living,  and  cruel  wert  thou,  O  my  bmther,  who  didst  snatch  me 
away  from  his  power  and  his  dominion."     Having  uttered  theaa 

•tfun,  Ae  irliaeled  voimd,  and  oun 
had  been  attin^,  and  where  Bnoaa 
hold  of  hie  garment  as  he  passed  b 
And  Cain  stopped,  and  belioldin^r  1 
into  the  dark  woods,"  and  he  walk 
and  when  he  reached  it  the  child  t 
bold  of  his  garment  as  he  passed  by, 
upon  the  ground  :  and  Cain  once  mo 
"  Abel,  my  brother,  I  would  lament  : 
within  me  is  withered,  and  burnt  up  \ 
I  pray  thee,  by  thy  flocks,  and  by  thy 
rivers  which  thou  lovedst,  that  thou  te, 
Who  is  the  God  of  the  dead  ?  where  d( 
what  sacrifices  are  acceptable  unto  hiii 
have  not  been  received  ;    I  have  pr£ 
heard ;  and  how  can  I  be  alHicted  more  1 
Shape  arose  and  answered,  "  0  that  th 
aa  I  will  have  pity  on  thee.     Follow 
bring  thy  child  with  thee  !' 

And  they  three  passed  over  the  whit< 
silent  aa  the  shadows. 



sadness,  a  peculiar  melancholy,  is  wont  to  take 
possession  of  me  alike  in  spring  and  in  autumn.  But  in  spring 
it  is  the  melancholy  of  hope  :  in  autumn  it  is  the  melancholy  of 
resignation.  As  I  was  journeying  on  foot  through  the  Apcnnine, 
I  fell  in  with  a  pilgrim  in  whom  the  spring  and  the  autnmn  and 
the  melancholy  of  both  seemed  to  have  combined.  In  his  dis- 
course there  were  the  freshness  and  the  colors  of  April  : 

Qual  ramicel  a  ramo, 
Tal  du  peosier  pensicro 
Id  lui  gcrinogliavo. 

But  as  I  gazed  on  his  whole  form  and  figure,  I  bethought  me  ol 
the  not  unlovely  decays,  both  of  age  and  of  the  late  season,  in 
the  stately  elm,  after  the  clusters  have  been  plucked  from  its  en- 
twining vines,  and  the  vines  are  as  bands  of  dried  withies  around 
its  Intnk  and  branches.  Even  so  there  was  a  memory  on  his 
smooth  and  ample  forehead,  which  blended  with  the  dedication 
uf  his  steady  eyes,  that  still  looked — 1  know  not,  whether  up- 
ward, or  far  onward,  or  rather  to  the  line  of  meeting  where  the 
sity  rests  upon  tho  distance.  But  how  may  I  express  that  dim- 
ness of  abstraction  which  lay  on  the  lustre  of  the  pilgrim's  eyes 
like  the  flitting  tarnish  from  the  breath  of  a  sigh  on  a  silver  mir- 
ror !  and  which  accorded  with  their  slow  and  reluctant  move- 
ment, whenever  he  turned  them  to  any  object  on  the  right  hand 
or  on  the  \e(t  ?  It  seemed,  methought,  as  if  there  lay  upon  the 
brightness  a  shadowy  presence  of  disappointments  now  unfelt, 
but  never  forgotten.  It  was  at  once  the  melancholy  of  hope  and 
of  resignation. 

We  had  not  long  been  fellow-travellers,  ere  a  sadden  tempest 
of  wind  and  rain  forced  us  to  seek  protection  in  the  vaulted  door- 
way of  a  lone  chapelry  ;  and  wo  sate  face  to  face  each  on  the 
stone  bench  alongside  the  low,  weather-stained  wall,  and  as  close 
It  possible  to  the  massy  door. 

Alter  a  pause  of  silence  :  even  thus,  said  ho,  like  two  strangem 


that  have  fled  to  the  same  shelter  from  the  same  storm,  not  lei- 
dom  do  Despair  and  Hope  meet  for  the  first  time  in  the  pozch  of 
Death  !  All  extremes  meet,  I  answered  ;  but  yours  was  a  strangB 
and  visionary  thought.  The  better  then  doth  it  beseem  both  th# 
place  and  me,  he  rephed.  From  a  Visionary  wilt  thoa  hear  a 
Vision  ?  Mark  that  vivid  flash  through  this  torrent  of  rain ! 
Fire  and  water.  Even  here  thy  adage  holds  true,  and  its  tmth 
the  moral  of  my  Vision.  I  entreated  him  to  proceed.  Sloping 
his  face  toward  the  arch  and  yet  averting  his  eye  from  it,  h« 
seemed  to  seek  and  prepare  his  words  :  till  listening  to  wind  that 
echoed  within  the  hoUow  edifice,  and  to  the  rain  without. 

Which  stole  on  his  thoughts  with  its  two-fold  souod. 
The  clash  hard  by  and  the  murmur  all  round, 

he  gradually  sank  away,  alike  from  me  and  from  his  own  pur- 
pose, and  amid  the  gloom  of  the  storm  and  in  the  duskiness  of 
that  place,  he  sate  like  an  emblem  on  a  rich  man's  sepulchre, 
or  like  a  mourner  on  the  sodded  grave  of  an  only  one — an  aged 
mourner,  who  is  watching  the  waned  moon  and  sorroweth  not 
Starting  at  length  from  his  brief  trance  of  abstraction,  with  cour- 
tesy and  an  atoning  suiilc  he  renewed  his  discourse,  and  com- 
menced his  parable. 

During  one  of  those  short  furloughs  from  the  service  of  the  body, 
which  the  soul  may  sometimes  obtain  even  in  this  its  militant 
state,  I  found  myself  in  a  vast  plain,  which  I  immediately  knew 
to  be  the  Valley  of  Life.  It  possessed  an  astonishing  diversity  of 
soils  :  here  was  a  sunny  spot,  and  there  a  dark  one,  forming  just 
such  a  mixture  of  sunshine  and  shade,  as  we  may  have  observed 
on  the  mountain's  side  in  an  April  day,  when  the  thin  broken 
clouds  are  scattered  over  heaven.  Almost  in  the  very  entrance 
of  the  valley  stood  a  large  and  gloomy  pile,  into  which  I  seemed 
constrained  to  enter.  Every  part  of  the  building  was  crowded 
with  tawdry  ornaments  and  fantastic  deformity.  On  every  win- 
dow was  portrayed,  in  glaring  and  inelegant  colors,  some  horrible 
tale,  or  preternatural  incident,  so  that  not  a  ray  of  light  could 
enter,  un tinged  by  the  medium  through  which  it  passed.  The 
body  of  the  building  was  full  of  people,  some  of  them  dancing,  in 
and  out,  in  unintelligible  figures,  with  strange  ceremonies  and 
antic  merriment,  while  others  seemed  convulsed  with  horror,  oc 
pining  in  mad  melancholy.     Intermingled  with  these.  I  observed 


a  niunber  of  men,  clothed  in  ceremonial  robes,  who  appeared  now 
to  marshal  the  various  groups,  and  to  direct  their  movements ; 
and  now  with  menacing  countenances,  to  drag  some  reluctant 
victim  to  a  vast  idol,  framed  of  iron  bars  intercrossed,  which 
formed  at  the  same  time  an  immense  cage,  and  the  shape  of  a 
human  Colossus. 

I  stood  for  a  while  lost  in  wonder  what  these  things  might 
mean  ;  when  lo  I  one  of  the  directors  came  up  to  me,  and  with 
a  stern  and  reproachful  look  bade  me  uncover  my  head,  for  that 
the  place  into  which  I  had  entered  was  the  temple  of  the  only 
true  Religion,  in  the  holier  recesses  of  which  the  great  Goddess 
personally  resided.  Himself  too  he  bade  me  reverence,  as  the 
consecrated  minister  of  her  rites.  Awe-struck  by  the  name  of 
Religion,  I  bowed  before  the  priest,  and  humbly  and  earnestly 
entreated  him  to  conduct  me  into  her  presence.  He  assented. 
Oiferings  he  took  from  me,  with  mystic  sprinklings  of  water  and 
with  salt  he  purified,  and  with  strange  sufHations  he  exorcised 
me  ;  and  then  led  me  through  many  a  dark  and  winding  alley, 
the  dew-damps  of  which  chilled  my  flesh,  and  the  hollow  echoes 
under  my  feet,  mingled,  methought,  with  moanings,  afirighted 
me.  At  length  we  entered  a  large  hall,  without  window,  or 
spiracle,  or  lamp.  The  asylum  and  dormitory  it  seemed  of  per- 
ennial night — only  that  the  walls  were  brought  to  the  eye  by  a 
number  of  self-luminous  inscriptions  in  letters  of  a  pale  sepulchral 
light,  which  held  strange  neutrality  with  the  darkness,  on  the 
verge  of  which  it  kept  its  rayless  vigil.  I  could  read  them,  me- 
thought ;  but  though  each  of  the  words  taken  separately  I  seemed 
to  understand,  yet  when  I  took  them  in  sentences,  they  were  rid- 
dles and  incomprehensible.  As  I  stood  meditating  on  these  hard 
sayings,  my  guide  thus  addressed  me — "  Read  and  believe :  these 
are  mysteries  !** — At  the  extremity  of  the  vast  hall  the  Goddess 
was  placed.  Her  features,  blended  with  darkness,  rose  out  to 
my  view,  terrible,  yet  vacant.  I  prostrated  myself  before  her, 
and  then  retired  with  my  guide,  soul-withered,  and  wondering, 
and  dissatisfied. 

As  I  re-entered  the  body  of  the  temple,  I  hoard  a  deep  buzz  ai 
of  discontent.  A  few  whose  eyes  were  bright,  and  either  piercing 
or  steady,  and  whose  ample  foreheads,  with  the  weighty  bar, 
ridge-like,  above  the  eyebrows,  bespoke  observation  followed  by 
meditative  thought ;  and  a  much  larger  number,  who  were  en- 


raged  by  the  severity  and  insolence  of  the  priests  in  ezactuig 
their  oOerings,  had  collected  in  one  tumultuous  group,  and  with 
a  confused  outcry  of  "  This  is  the  Temple  of  Superstition  !'*  after 
much  contumely,  and  turmoil,  and  cruel  mal-treatment  on  all 
sides,  rushed  out  of  the  pile  :  and  I,  methought,  joined  them. 

We  speeded  from  the  Temple  with  hasty  steps,  and  had  now 
nearly  gone  round  half  the  valley,  when  we  were  addressed  by  a 
woman,  tall  beyond  the  stature  of  mortals,  and  a  something  moK 
than  human  in  her  countenance  and  mien,  which  yet  could  by 
mortals  be  only  felt,  not  conveyed  by  words  or  intelligibly  distin^ 
guished.     Deep  reflection,  animated  by  ardent  feelings,  was  dis- 
played in  them  :  and  hope,  without  its  uncertainty,  and  a  some- 
thing more  than  all  these,  which  I  understood  not,  but  which  yet 
seemed  to  blend  all  these  into  a  divine  unity  of  expression.     Her 
garments  were  white  and  matronly,  and  of  the  simplest  texture. 
We  inquired  her  name.     **  My  name,"  she  replied,  "  is  Religion." 
The  more  numerous  part  of  our  company,  affrighted  by  the 
very  sound,  and  sore  from  recent  impostures  or  sorceries,  hurried 
onwards  and  examined  no  farther.     A  few  of  us,  struck  by  the 
manifest  opposition  of  her  form  and  manners  to  those  of  the  living 
Idol,  whom  we   had  so   recently  abjured,  agreed  to  follow  her, 
though  with  cautious  circumspection.     She  led  us  to  an  emi- 
nence in  the  midst  of  the  valley,  from  the  top  of  which  we  could 
command  the  whole  plain,  and  observe  the  relation  of  the  diHer 
ent  parts  to  each  other,  and  of  each  to  the  whole,  and  of  all  to 
each.    She  then  gave  us  an  oplic  glass  which  assisted  without  con- 
tradicting our  natural  vision,  and  enabled  us  to  see  far  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  Valley  of  Life  ;  though  our  eye  even  thus  assisted 
permitted  us  only  to  behold  a  light  and  a  glory,  but  what  we  could 
not  descr}',  save  only  that  it  was.  and  that  it  was  most  glorious. 
And  now  with  the  rapid  transition  of  a  dream.  I  had  overtaken 
and  rejoined  the  more  numerous  party,  who  had  abruptly  left  us, 
indignant  at  the  very  name  of  religion.    They  journeyed  on,  goad- 
ing each  other  with  remembrances  of  past  oppressions,  and  never 
looking  back,  till  in  the  eagerness  to  rece<le  from  the  Temple  oi 
Superstition  they  had  rounded  the  whole  circle  of  the  valley. 
And  lo  !  there  faced  us  the  mouth  of  a  vast  cavern,  at  the  base 
of  a  lofty  and  almost  perpendicular  rock,  the  interior  side  (»f 
which,  unknown  to  them,  and  unsuspected,  formed  the  extreme 
and  backward  wall  of  the  Temple.     An  impatient  crowd,  we  en- 


tered  the  vast  and  dusky  cave,  which  was  the  only  perforation 
of  the  precipice.  At  the  mouth  of  the  cave  sate  two  figures  ; 
the  first,  by  her  dress  and  gestures,  I  knew  to  be  Sensuality  ;  the 
second  form,  from  the  fierceness  of  his  demeanor,  and  the  brutal 
scomfulness  of  his  looks,  declared  himself  to  be  the  monster  Blas- 
phemy. He  uttered  big  words,  and  yet  ever  and  anon  I  observed 
that  he  turned  pale  at  his  own  courage.  We  entered.  Some  re- 
mained in  the  opening  of  the  cave,  with  the  one  or  the  other  of 
its  guardians.  The  rest,  and  I  among  them,  pressed  on,  till  we 
reached  an  ample  chamber,  that  seemed  the  centre  of  the  rock. 
The  climate  of  the  place  was  unnaturally  cold. 

In  the  furthest  distance  of  the  chamber  sate  an  old  dim-eyed 
man,  poring  with  a  microscope  over  the  torso  of  a  statue  which 
had  neither  basis,  nor  feet,  nor  head  ;  but  on  its  breast  was  carved 
Nature  !     To  this  he  continually  applied  his  glass,  and  seemed 
enraptured  with  the  various  inequalities  which  it  rendered  visible 
on  the  seemingly  polished  surface  of  the  marble. — Yet  evermore 
was  this  delight  and  triumph  followed  by  expressions  of  hatred, 
and  vehement  railing  against  a  Being,  who  yet,  he  assured  us, 
had  no  existence.     This  mystery  suddenly  recalled  to  me  what  J 
had  read   in  the  holiest  recess  of  the  Temple  of  Superstition 
The  old  man  spake  in  divers  tongues,  and  continued  to  utter  othei 
and  most  strange  mysteries.     Among  the  rest  he  talked  much 
and  vehemently  concerning  an  infinite  scries  of  causes  and  effects, 
which  he  explained  to  be — a  string  of  blind  men,  the  last  of 
whom  caught  hold  of  the  skirt  of  the  one  before  him,  he  of  the 
next,  and  so  on  till  they  were  all  out  of  sight ;  and  that  they  all 
walked  infallibly  straight,  without  making  one  false  step,  though 
all  were  alike  blind.     Methought  I  borrowed  courage  from  sur- 
prise, and  asked  him — Who  then  is  at  the  head  to  guide  them  ? 
Ue  looked  at  me  with  ineffable  contempt,  not  unmixed  with  an 
angry  suspicion,  and  then  replied,  •'  No  one.'*     The  string  of 
blind  men  went  on  forever  without  any  beginning  ;  for  although 
one  blind  man  could  not  move  without  stumbling,  yet  infinite 
blindness  supplied  the  want  of  sight.      I  burst  into  laughter, 
which  instantly  turned  to  terror — for  as  he  started  forward  in 
rage,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  from  behind  ;  and  lo  !  I  beheld 
a  monster  bi-form  and  Janus-headed,  in  the  hinder  face  and  shape 
of  which  I  instantly  recognized  the  dread  countenance  of  Super- 
stition— and  in  the  terror  I  awoke. 



OR   "  JOHN   ANDERSON,    MY   JO,  JOHN." 

Scene — A  spacious  dratcing^room,  unth  fnustc-room  adjoining. 

Katharine.  What  are  the  words  ? 

Eliza.  Ask  our  friend,  the  Improvisatore ;  here  he  comes 
Kate  has  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Sir ;  it  is  that  you  will  repeat 
the  ballad  that  Mr. sang  so  sweetly. 

Friend,  It  is  in  Moore's  Irish  Melodies  ;  but  I  do  not  recollect 

the  words  distinctly.     The  moral  of  them,  however,  I  take  to  be 

this  : — 

Love  would  remain  the  same  if  true. 
When  we  were  neither  young  nor  new ; 
Yea,  and  in  all  within  the  will  that  came, 
By  the  same  proofs  would  show  it«elf  the  same. 

Eliz.  What  are  the  lines  you  repeated  from  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  which  my  mother  admired  so  much  ?  It  begins  with 
something  about  two  vines  so  close  that  their  tendrils  intermingle. 

Fri.  You  mean  Charles'  speech  to  Angelina,  in  "  The  Elder 

We'll  live  together,  like  two  neighbor  vines, 
Circling  our  souls  and  loves  in  one  another  I 
We'll  spring  together,  and  we'll  bear  one  fruit ; 
One  joy  shall  make  us  smile,  and  one  grief  mourn ; 
One  age  go  with  us,  and  one  hour  of  death 
Shall  close  our  eyes,  and  one  grave  make  us  happy. 

Kath,  A  precious  boon,  that  would  go  far  to  reconcile  one  to 
old  age^this  love — ^if  true  I     But  is  there  any  such  true  love  ? 

Fri.  I  hope  so. 

Kath,  But  do  you  believe  it  ? 

Eliza,  (eagerly)  I  am  sure  he  does. 

Fri.  From  a  man  turned  of  fiily,  Katharine,  I  imagine,  ct- 
pectt  a  less  confident  answer. 

Kath.  A  more  sincere  one,  perhaps. 


Fri.  Erea  though  he  should  have  obtained  th»  aickname  n( 
ImproviBatore,  by  perpetiating  chaiades  CLnd  extempore  verses  at 
Christmas  times  f 

Eiiz.  Nay,  but  be  seriouH. 

Fi-i.  Serious  !  Doubtless.  A  grave  pcrwnage  of  my  yeurs  giv- 
ing a  love-lecture  to  two  young  ladies,  can  not  well  be  otherwise. 
The  difficulty,  I  suspect,  would  be  for  them  to  remain  so.  li 
will  be  Btked  whether  I  am  not  the  "  elderly  gentleman"  who 
sale  ■'  despairing  beside  a  clear  stream,"  with  a  willow  for  his 

Eliz.  Say  auotlicr  word,  and  we  will  call  it  downright  aflec- 

JQitk.  No!  wo  will  be  sfirontcd,  drop  a  courtesy,  uid  ash 

pardon  for  our  presumption  in  expecting  th&t  Mr. '  would 

waste  his  sense  on  two  insignificant  girls. 

Fri.  Well,  well,  I  will  bo  serious.  Hem  I  Now  then  com- 
mences the  discourse  ;  Mr.  Moore's  song  being  the  text.  Love, 
as  distinguished  from  Friendship,  on  the  one  hand,  and  from  the 
passion  that  too  oflen  usurps  its  name,  on  the  other — 

Lucius  {Eliza's  broUier,  wlw  had  just  joined  the  trio,  in  a 
whisper  to  tite  Friend).     But  is  not  Love  the  union  of  both  ? 

Fri.  (aside  to  Lucius).     He  never  loved  who  thinks  so. 

Eliz.  Srother,  we  don't  want  you.  There  !  Mrs.  II.  can  not 
arrange  the  flowcr-vose  without  you.     Thank  you,  Mrs    Harl- 

Lue.  I'll  have  my  reveuge  !  I  know  what  I  will  say  ! 

Eliz.  OffI  ofl'I  Now,  dear  sir, — Love,  you  were  saying — 

Fri.  Hush !  Preaching,  you  mean,  Eliza. 

Eliz.  {impalienliy).  Pshaw  I 

Fri.  Well  then,  I  was  saying  that  love,  truly  such,  is  itself  not 
the  most  common  thing  m  the  world  :  and  mutual  love  still  less 
»>.  But  that  enduring  personal  attachment,  so  beautifully  de- 
lineated by  Erin's  sweet  melodist,  and  atill  more  touchingly,  per- 
haps, in  the  well-kunwn  bullad,  "  John  Anderson,  my  Jo,  John," 
in  addition  to  a  depth  and  constancy  of  charoclei  of  no  every-day 
occurrence,  supposes  a  peculiar  sensibility  and  tenderness  of  na- 
ture i  a  constitutional  communicativeness  and  utterancy  of  heart 
and  soul ;  a  delight  ia  the  detail  of  sympathy,  in  the  outward 
and  visible  signs  of  the  sacrament  within — to  count,  as  it  were, 
the  pulses  of  the  life  of  love.     But  above  all,  it  supimses  a  soul 


which,  even  ia  the  pride  and  Bummer-tide  of  life — even  in  the 
histihood  of  health  and  strength,  had  felt  oftenest  and  prized 
highest  that  which  age  can  not  take  away,  and  which,  in  all  cor 
lovings,  is  the  Love  ; 

Eliz.  There  is  something  here  {pointing  to  her  heart)  that 
seems  to  understand  you,  hut  wants  the  word  that  would  make 
it  understand  itself 

Kath,  I,  too,  seem  to  feel  what  you  mean.  Interpret  the  feel 
ing  for  us. 

Fri. 1  mean  that  willing  sense  of  the  unsufficingness  of 

the  self  for  itself,  which  predisposes  a  generous  nature  to  see,  in 
the  total  heing  of  another,  the  supplement  and  completion  of  its 
own ; — ^that  quiet  perpetual  seeking  which  the  presence  of  the 
beloved  object  modulates,  not  suspends,  where  the  heart  mo- 
mently finds,  and,  finding,  again  seeks  on  ; — lastly,  when  "  life's 
changeful  orb  has  pass'd  the  full,''  a  confirmed  faith  in  the  noble- 
ness of  humanity,  thus  brought  home  and  pressed,  as  it  were,  to 
the  very  bosom  of  hourly  experience  ;  it  supposes,  I  say,  a  heart- 
felt reverence  for  worth,  not  the  less  deep  because  divested  of 
its  solemnity  by  habit,  by  familiarity,  by  mutual  infirmities,  and 
even  by  a  feeling  of  modesty  which  will  arise  in  delicate  minds, 
when  they  are  conscious  of  possessing  the  same  or  the  correspon 
dent  excellence  in  their  own  characters.  In  short,  there  must  be 
a  mind,  which,  while  it  feels  the  beautiful  and  the  excellent  in 
the  beloved  as  its  own,  and  by  right  of  love  appropriates  it,  can 
call  Goodness  its  playfellow ;  and  dares  make  sport  of  time  and 
infirmity,  while,  in  the  person  of  a  thousand-foldly  endeared  part- 
ner, we  feel  for  aged  virtue  the  caressing  fondness  that  belongs 
to  the  innocence  of  childhood,  and  repeat  the  same  attentions  and 
tender  courtesies  which  had  been  dictate<l  bv  the  same  afiection 
to  the  same  object  when  attired  in  feminine  loveliness  or  in 
manly  beauty. 

Eliz.  What  a  soothing — what  an  elevating  thought  I 

Kath.  If  it  be  not  only  a  mere  fancy. 

Fri.  At  all  events,  these  qualities  which  I  have  enumerated* 
are  rarely  found  united  in  a  single  individual.  How  much  more 
rare  must  it  be,  that  two  such  individuals  should  meet  together 
in  this  wide  world  under  circumstances  that  admit  of  their  union 
as  Hoshand  and  Wife.  A  person  may  be  highly  estimable  on 
the  whole,  nay,  amiable  a«  neighbor,  friend,  housemate — in  short, 


in  all  the  concentric  circIeB  of  attachment  save  only  the  last  and 
iiunoBt ;  and  yet  from  how  many  causes  be  estranged  from  the 
highest  perfection  in  this  !  Pride,  coldnew,  or  faatidioueneea  of 
naliire,  worldly  cares,  an  anxious  or  ambitious  disposition,  a 
pasjion  for  display,  a  sullen  temper, — one  or  the  other — too  often 
proves  "  the  dead  fly  in  the  compost  of  spices,"  and  any  one  is 
enough  to  unfit  it  for  the  precious  halm  of  unction.  For  some 
mighty  good  sort  of  i>eople,  too,  there  is  not  seldom  a  sort  of 
solemn  saturniuc,  or,  if  you  will,  ursine  vanity,  that  keeps  itself 
alive  by  sucking  the  paws  of  its  own  self-importance.  And  as 
this  high  sense,  or  rather  sensation  of  their  own  value  is,  for  the 
most  part,  grounded  on  negative  qualities,  so  they  have  no  better 
means  of  preserving  the  same  but  by  negatives — that  is,  by  not 
doing  or  saying  any  thing,  that  might  be  put  down  for  fond,  silly, 
or  nonsensical ; — or  (to  use  their  own  phrase)  by  never  forgetting 
themselves,  which  some  of  their  acquaintance  are  uncharitable 
enough  to  think  the  most  worthless  object  they  could  be  em- 
ployed in  remembering. 

EUz.  {in  answer  to  a  whitper  from  Katharine).  To  a  hair  ! 
He  must  have  sate  for  it  himself  Save  me  from  such  folks  I 
But  they  are  out  of  the  question. 

FH.  True!  but  the  same  eSect  is  produced  in  thousands  by 
the  too  general  insensibility  to  a  very  important  truth  ;  this, 
namely,  that  the  misery  of  human  life  is  made  up  of  large 
masses,  each  separated  from  the  other  by  certain  intervals.  One 
year,  the  death  of  a  child  ;  years  after,  a  failure  in  trade  ;  after 
another  longer  or  shorter  interval,  a  daughter  may  have  marrieil 
unhappily  \ — in  all  but  the  singularly  unfortunate,  the  integral 
parts  that  compose  the  sum  total  of  the  unhappiness  of  a  man's 
life,  are  easily  counted,  and  distinctly  remembered.  The  happi- 
ness of  life,  on  the  contrary,  is  made  up  of  minute  fractions — the 
little,  soon-forgotten  charities  of  a  kiss,  a  smile,  a  kind  look,  a 
heartfelt  compliment  in  the  disguise  of  playful  raillery,  and  the 
countless  other  infinitesimals  of  pleasurable  thought  and  genial 

Kath.  Well,  Sir;  you  have  said  quite  enough  to  make  me 
despair  of  linding  a  "  John  Anderson,  my  Jo,  John,"  with  whom 
Id  totter  down  the  hill  of  life. 

Fri.  Not  so !  Good  men  are  not,  I  trust,  so  much  scarcer  than 
good  women,  hut  that  what  another  would  find  iu  you,  you  inuv 


hope  to  find  in  another.  But  well,  however,  may  that  boon  ba 
rare,  the  possession  of  which  would  be  more  than  an  adequate 
reward  for  the  rarest  virtue. 

Eliz.  Surely,  he,  who  has  described  it  so  well,  must  have  pos- 
sessed it  ? 

Frt.  If  he  were  worthy  to  have  possessed  it,  and  had  believ* 
ingly  anticipated  and  not  found  it,  how   bitter  the  disappoint 
ment !     (Then,  after  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes), 

Answer,  ex  improviso. 

Yes,  yes !  that  boon,  life's  richest  treat. 
He  had,  or  fancied  that  he  had  ; 
Say,  'twas  but  in  his  own  conceit — 

The  fancy  made  him  glad  ! 
Crown  of  his  cup,  and  garnish  of  his  dish, 
The  boon,  prefigured  in  his  earliest  wish. 
The  fair  fulfilment  of  his  poesy, 
\Vhen  his  young  heart  first  yeam'd  for  sympathy  ! 

But  e'en  the  meteor  ofispring  of  the  brain 

Unnourished  wane  ; 
Faith  asks  her  daily  bread. 
And  Fancy  must  be  fed. 
Now  so  it  chanced — from  wet  or  drj', 
It  boots  not  how — I  know  not  whv — 
She  missed  her  wonted  food  ;  and  quickly 
Poor  Fancy  stagger'd  and  grew  sickly. 
Then  came  a  restless  state,  'twixt  yea  and  nay, 
His  faith  was  fix'd,  his  heart  all  ebb  and  flow  ; 
Or  like  a  bark,  in  some  half  shelter'd  bay, 
Above  its  anchor  driving  to  and  fro. 

That  boon,  which  but  to  have  possest 
In  a  belief,  gave  life  a  zest — 
Uncertain  both  what  it  had  been, 
And  if  by  error  lost,  or  luck ; 
And  what  it  was  ; — an  evergreen 
Which  some  insidious  blight  had  struck. 
Or  annual  flower,  which,  past  its  blow. 
No  vernal  spell  shall  e'er  revive ; 


Uncertain,  and  afraid  to  know, 
Doubts  tossed  him  to  and  fro  : 
Hope  keeping  Love,  Love  Hope  alive, 
Like  babes  bewildered  in  the  snow, 
That  cling  and  huddle  from  the  cold 
In  hollow  tree  or  ruin'd  fold. 

Those  sparkling  colors,  once  his  boast 

Fading,  one  by  one  away. 
Thin  and  hueless  as  a  ghost. 

Poor  Fancy  on  her  sick  bed  lay ; 
111  at  distance,  worse  when  near, 
Telling  her  dreams  to  jealous  Fear  ! 
Where  was  it  then,  the  sociable  sprite 
That  crowu'd  the  poet*s  cup  and  decked  his  dish  ? 
Poor  shadow  cast  from  an  unsteady  wish. 
Itself  a  substance  by  no  other  right 
But  that  it  intercepted  Reason's  light ; 
It  dimm'd  his  eye,  it  darkened  on  his  brow, 
A  peevish  mood,  a  tedious  time,  I  trow ! 
Thank  Heaven  !  'tis  not  so  now. 

0  bliss  of  blissful  hours  ! 
The  boon  of  Heaven's  decreeing, 
While  yet  in  Eden's  bowers 
Dwelt  the  first  husband  and  his  sinless  mate  I 
The  one  sweet  plant,  which,  piteous  Heaven  agreeing, 
They  bore  with  them  thro'  Eden's  closing  gate ! 
Of  life's  gay  summer  tide  the  sovran  rose  ! 
Late  autumn's  amaranth,  that  more  fragrant  blows 
When  passion's  flowers  all  fall  or  fade  ; 
If  this  were  ever  his,  in  outward  being, 
Or  but  his  own  true  love's  projected  shade, 
Now  that  at  length  by  certain  proof  he  knows, 
That  whether  real  or  a  magic  show, 
Whate'^r  it  was,  it  is  no  longer  so  ; 
Though  heart  be  lonesome,  hope  laid  low, 
Yet,  Lady  !  deem  him  not  unblest : 
The  certainty  that  struck  hope  dead, 
Hath  left  contentment  in  her  stead  : 
And  that  is  next  to  best ! 



Of  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary  hours, 
When  life  seems  emptied  of  all  genial  powers, 
A  dreary  mood,  which  he  who  ne'er  has  known 
May  bless  his  happy  lot,  I  sate  alone ; 
And,  from  the  numbing  spell  to  win  relief, 
Caird  on  the  past  for  thought  of  glee  or  grief. 
In  vain  !  bereft  alike  of  grief  and  glee, 
I  sate  and  cow*r'd  o'er  my  own  vacancy  ! 
And  as  I  watch' d  the  dull  continuous  ache, 
Which,  all  else  slumVring,  seem'd  alone  to  wake  ; 

0  Friend  !  long  wont  to  notice  yet  conceal, 
And  soothe  by  silence  what  words  can  not  heal, 

1  but  half  saw  that  quiet  hand  of  thine 
Place  on  my  desk  this  exquisite  design, 
Boccaccio's  Garden  and  its  faery. 

The  Jove,  the  joyauce,  and  the  gallantry  I 
An  Idyll,  with  Boccaccio's  spirit  warm, 
Framed  in  the  silent  poesy  of  form. 
Like  Hocks  adowu  a  newly-bathed  steep 

Emerging  i'roiu  a  mist ;  or  like  a  stream 
Of  music  soft  that  not  dis]>els  the  sleep. 

But  casts  in  happier  moulds  the  slumberer's  dream 
Gazed  by  an  idle  eye  with  silent  might 
The  picture  stole  upon  my  inward  sight. 
A  tremulous  warmth  crept  gradual  o'er  my  chest. 
As  though  an  infant's  finger  touch'd  ray  breast. 
And  one  by  one  (I  know  not  whence)  were  brought 
All  spirits  of  power  that  most  had  stirrd  my  thought 
In  selfless  boyhood,  on  a  new  world  tost 


Of  wonder,  and  in  its  own  fancies  lost  : 

Or  charm'd  mv  youth,  that,  kindled  from  alx)ve. 

Loved  ere  it  loved,  and  sought  a  form  for  love  ; 

Or  lent  a  lustre  to  the  earnest  scan 

Of  manhood,  musing  what  and  whence  is  man  ! 

Wild  strain  of  Scalds,  that  in  the  sea-worn  caves 

Rehearsed  their  war-spell  to  the  ^i-inds  and  waves  ; 


Or  fateful  hymn  of  those  prophetic  maids, 

That  caird  on  Hertha  in  deep  forest  glades  ; 

Or  minstrel  lay,  that  cheer'd  the  baron's  feast ; 

Or  rhyme  of  city  pomp,  of  monk  and  priest, 

Judge,  mayor,  and  many  a  guild  in  long  array, 

To  high-church  pacing  on  the  great  saint's  day. 

And  many  a  verse  which  to  myself  1  sang, 

That  woke  the  tear  yet  stole  away  the  pang. 

Of  hopes  which  in  lamenting  I  renew' d. 

And  last,  a  matron  now,  of  sober  mien, 

Yet  radiant  still  and  with  no  earthly  sheen, 

Whom  as  a  faery  child  my  childhood  woo'd 

Even  in  my  dawn  of  thought — Philosophy  ; 

Though  then  unconscious  of  herself,  pardie, 

She  bore  no  other  name  than  Poesy  ; 

And,  like  a  gifl  from  heaven,  in  lifeful  glee. 

That  had  but  newly  left  a  mother's  knee, 

Prattled  and  play'd  with  bird  and  flower,  and  stone 

As  if  with  elfin  playfellows  well  known. 

And  life  reveal'd  to  innocence  alone. 

Thanks,  gentle  artist !  now  I  can  descry 

Thy  fair  creation  with  a  mastering  eye, 

And  all  awake !     And  now  in  fix'd  gaze  stand, 

Now  wander  through  the  Eden  of  thy  hand  ; 

Praise  the  green  arches,  on  the  fountain  clear 

See  fragment  shadows  of  the  crossing  deer  ; 

And  with  that  serviceable  nymph  I  stoop 

The  crystal  from  its  restless  pool  to  scoop. 

I  see  no  longer  I     I  myself  am  there, 

Sit  on  the  ground-sward,  and  the  banquet  share. 

'Tis  I,  that  sweep  that  lute's  love-echoing  strings, 

And  gaze  upon  the  maid  v'ho  gazing  sings : 

Or  pause  and  listen  to  the  tinkling  bells 

From  the  high  tower,  and  think  that  there  she  dwells 

With  old  Boccaccio's  soul  I  stand  possest, 

And  breathe  an  air  like  life,  that  swells  my  chest. 

The  brightness  of  the  world,  O  thou  once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy  ! 


0  Florence !  with  the  Tuscan  fields  and  hills, 
And  famous  A  mo  fed  with  all  their  rills ; 
Thou  brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy ! 
Rich,  ornate,  populous,  all  treasures  thine, 
The  golden  com,  the  olive,  and  the  vine. 
Fair  cities,  gallant  mansions,  castles  old 
And  forests,  where  beside  his  leafy  hold 
The  sullen  boar  hath  heard  the  distant  horn, 
And  whets  his  tusks  against  the  gnarled  thorn ; 
Palladian  palace  with  its  storied  halls  ; 
Fountains,  where  Love  lies  listening  to  their  falb  i 
Gardens,  where  flings  the  bridge  its  airy  span. 
And  Nature  makes  her  happy  home  with  man ; 
"Where  many  a  gorgeous  flower  is  duly  fed 
With  its  own  rill,  on  its  own  spangled  bed, 
And  wreathes  the  marble  urn,  or  leans  its  head, 
A  mimic  mourner,  that  with  veil  withdrawn 
AVeeps  liquid  gems,  the  presents  of  the  dawn  ;^ 
Thine  all  delights,  and  every  muse  is  thine  ; 
And  more  ihaii  all,  the  embrace  and  intertwine 
Of  all  with  all  in  gay  and  twinkling  dance! 
Mid  gods  of  Greece  and  warriors  of  romance, 
See  !  Boccace  8its,  unfolding  on  his  knees 
The  new-found  roll  of  old  Ma^onides  ;* 
But  from  his  mantle's  fold,  and  near  the  heart, 
Peers  Ovid's  holy  book  of  Love's  sweet  smart  It 

0  all-enjoyinji^  and  all-blending  sa£;e, 
Long  be  it  mine  to  con  thy  mazy  page, 

*  Boccaccio  claimc<l  for  hiuiAelf  the  glory  of  haviog  first  iotrodoeed  Uie 
Jirorks  of  Homer  to  hia  countrymen. 

f  I  know  few  more  striking  or  more  interesting  proofs  of  the  ovcr- 
virhelming  influence  which  the  study  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  classics 
exercised  on  the  judgments,  feelings,  and  imaginations  of  the  literati  of 
Kurope  at  the  commencement  of  the  restoration  of  literature,  than  the  pas- 
Mige  in  the  Filocopo  of  Boccaccio  :  where  the  sage  instructor,  Racfaeo,  as  sood 
as  the  young  prince  and  the  beautiful  girl  Biancofiore  had  learned  their 
letters,  sets  them  to  study  the  Holy  Book,  Ovid's  Art  of  Love.  "  Inoomin 
cid  Radieo  a  mettere  il  suo  officio  in  esecuzionc  con  intera  sollecitudine. 
K  loro,  in  breve  tempo,  insegoato  a  oonoscer  le  lettere,  fece  leggere  il  santo 
libro  d*OvTidio,  nel  quale  il  sommo  poeta  mostra,  come  i  santi  foodii  di 
Venere  si  debbano  ne*  freddi  cuori  acoendere." 



Where,  half-conceard,  the  eye  of  fancy  views 

P^aans,  nymphs,  and  winged  saints,  all  gracious  to  thy  muse! 

Still  in  thy  garden  let  me  watch  their  pranks. 
And  see  in  Dian's  vest  between  the  ranks 
Of  the  trim  vines,  some  maid  that  half  believes 
The  vestal  fires,  of  which  her  lover  grieves. 
With  that  sly  satyr  peeping  through  the  leaves  I 


ON    A    CATARACT   FROM   A    CAVERN    NEAR    THE    SUMMIT   OF  A    MOliN 



Unperishing  youth  ! 

Thou  leapest  from  forth 

The  cell  of  thy  hidden  nativity  ; 

Never  mortal  saw 

The  cradle  of  the  strong  one  ; 

Never  mortal  heard 

The  gathering  of  his  voices  ; 

The  deep-murmured  charm  of  the  son  of  the  rock, 

That  is  lisp*d  evermore  at  his  slumberless  fountain. 

There*s  a  cloud  at  the  portal,  a  spray- woven  veil 

At  the  shrine  of  his  ceaseless  renewing  ; 

It  embosoms  the  roses  of  dawn. 

It  entangles  the  shafts  of  the  noon, 

And  into  the  bed  of  its  stillness 

The  moonshine  sinks  down  as  in  slumber, 

That  the  son  of  the  rock,  that  the  nursling  of  heaven 

May  be  born  in  a  holy  twilight  ! 


The  wild  goat  in  awe 

Looks  up  and  beholds 

Above  thee  the  clilf  inaccessible  ;— 

Thou  at  once  full-born 

M add' nest  in  thy  joyance, 

Whirlcst,  shatter'st,  splitt'st, 

Life  invulnerable. 





Like  a  lone  Arab,  old  and  blind 

Some  caravan  had  led  behind 

Who  sits  beside  a  ruin'd  well, 

Where  the  shy  sand-asps  bask  and  swell ; 
And  now  he  hangs  his  aged  head  aslant, 
And  listens  for  a  human  sound — in  vain  ! 
And  now  the  aid,  which  Heaven  alone  can  grant. 
Upturns  his  eyeless  face  from  Heaven  to  gain  : — 
Even  thus,  in  vacant  mood,  one  sultry  hour, 
Resting  my  eye  upon  a  drooping  plant. 
With  brow  low  bent,  within  my  garden  bower, 
I  sate  upon  the  couch  of  camomile  ; 
And — whether  'twas  a  transient  sleep,  perchance, 
Flitted  across  the  idle  brain,  the  while 
I  watch'd  the  sickly  calm  with  aimless  scope, 
In  my  own  heart ;  or  that,  indeed  a  trance, 
Turn'd  my  eye  inward — thee,  0  genial  Hope, 
Love's  elder  sister  I  thee  did  I  behold, 
Drest  as  a  bridesmaid,  but  all  pale  and  cold. 
With  roseless  cheek,  all  pale  and  cold  and  dim 

Lie  lifeless  at  my  feet  I 
And  then  came  Love,  a  sylph  in  bridal  trim, 

And  stood  beside  my  seat ; 
She  bent,  and  kissed  her  sister's  lips. 

As  she  was  wont  to  do  ; — 
Alas  I  'twas  but  a  chilling  breath 
Woke  just  enough  of  life  in  death 
To  make  Hope  die  anew. 

Anxious  to  associate  the  name  of  a  roost  dear  and  honored  friend  with  my 
own,  I  solicited  and  obtained  the  permissiou  of  Professor  J.  H.  Geeex  tr. 
permit  the  insertion  of  the  two  following  poems,  by  him  composed. 

a.   T.   C>OLKaiPOB. 


The  house  is  a  prison,  the  school-room's  a  cell ; 
Leave  study  and  books  for  the  upland  and  dell ; 


Lay  aside  tke  dull  poring,  quit  home  and  quit  care  ; 
Sally  forth  !  Sally  forth  !  Let  us  breathe  the  fresh  air  ! 
The  sky  dons  its  holiday  mantle  of  blue  ; 
The  sun  sips  his  morning  refreshment  of  dew  ; 
Shakes  joyously  laughing  his  tresses  of  light, 
And  here  and  there  turns  his  eye  piercing  and  bright  ; 
Then  jocund  mounts  up  on  his  glorious  car, 
V\''ith  smiles  to  the  mom, — for  he  means  to  go  far ; — 
vYhile  the  clouds,  that  had  newly  paid  court  at  his  levee, 
Spread  sail  to  the  breeze,  and  glide  ofi*  in  a  bevy. 
Tree,  and  tree-tufled  hedge-row,  and  sparkling  between 
Dewy  meadows  enamelled  in  gold  and  in  green, 
With  king-cups  and  daisies,  that  all  the  year  please. 
Sprays,  petals,  and  leaflets,  that  nod  in  the  breeze. 
With  carpets,  and  garlands,  and  wreaths,  deck  the  way. 
And  tempt  the  blithe  spirit  still  onward  to  stray. 
Itself  its  own  home  ; — far  away  !  far  away  ! 

The  butterflies  flutter  in  pairs  round  the  bower  ; 
The  humble-bee  sings  in  each  bell  of  each  flower ; 
The  bee  hums  of  heather  and  breeze-wooing  hill. 
And  forgets  in  the  sunshine  his  toil  and  his  skill ; 
The  birds  carol  gladly  ! — the  lark  mounts  on  high ; 
The  swallows  on  wing  make  thelV  tune  to  the  eye, 
And  as  birds  of  good  omen,  that  summer  loves  well, 
Ever  wheeling  weave  ever  some  magical  spell. 
The  hunt  is  abroad  : — hark  !  the  horn  soundp  its  note, 
And  seems  to  invite  us  to  regions  remote. 
The  horse  in  the  meadow  is  stirred  by  the  sound, 
And  neighing  impatient  o'erleaps  the  low  mound  ; 
Then  proud  in  his  speed  o'er  the  champaign  he  bounds, 
To  the  whoop  of  the  huntsmen  and  tongue  of  the  hounds. 
Then  stay  not  within,  for  on  such  a  blest  day 
We  can  never  quit  home,  while  with  Nature  we  stray  ;  far  away 
far  away ! 



The  feverous  dream  is  past !  and  I  awake. 

Alone  and  joyless  in  my  prison-cell, 

Again  to  ply  the  never-ending  toil, 

And  bid  the  task- worn  memory  weave  again 

The  tangled  threads,  and  ravelled  skein  of  thought 

Disjointed  fragments  of  my  care-worn  life ! 

The  mirror  of  my  soul, — ah !  when  again 

To  welcome  and  reflect  calm  joy  and  hope ! — 

Again  subsides,  and  smooths  its  turbid  swell, 

Late  surging  in  the  sweep  of  frenzy's  blast, — 

And  the  sad  form  of  scenes  and  deeds  long  past 

Blend  into  spectral  shapes  and  deathlike  life, 

And  pass  in  silent,  stem  procession  ! — 

The  storm  is  past ;  but  in  the  pause  and  hush. 

Nor  calm  nor  tranquil  joy,  nor  peace  are  mine  ; 

My  spirit  is  rebuk'd  ! — and  like  a  mist. 

Despondency,  in  gray  cold  mantle  clad, 

In  phantom  form  gigantic  floats  I — 

That  dream, 
That  dream,  that  dreadful  dream,  the  potent  spell, 
That  calls  to  life  the  phantoms  of  the  past, — 
Makes  e'en  oblivion  memor}^*s  register, — 
Still  swells  and  vibrates  in  my  throbbing  brain ! 
Again  I  wildly  quafl'd  the  maddening  bowl, 
Again  I  stak'd  my  all — again  the  die 
Prov'd  traitor  to  my  hopes  ; — and  'twas  for  her. 
Whose  love  more  madden'd  than  the  bowl,  whose  lovp. 
More  dear  than  all,  was  treacherous  as  the  die  : — 
Again  I  saw  her  with  her  paramour, 
Again  I  aim'd  the  deadly  blow,  again 
^  senseless  fell,  and  knew  not  whom  I  struck. 
Myself,  or  her,  or  him  : — I  heard  the  shriek, 
And  mingled  laugh,  and  cry  of  agony  : 
I  fell  the  whirl  of  rapid  motion, — 
And  hosts  of  fiendish  shapes,  uncertain  seen 
In  murk}  air.  glared  fiercely  as  I  pass'd  ; — 


They  welcomed  me  with  hitter  laughs  of  scorn, 
They  pledged  me  in  the  hrimming  cup  of  hate.— 

But  stay  your  wild  career,  unhridled  thoughts, 
Or  frenzy  must  unseat  my  reason's  sway, — 
Again  give  license  to  my  lawless  will  I — 
And  yet  I  know  not,  if  that  demon  rout 
Be  fancy  stirred  hy  passion's  power,  or  true  ;-^ 
Or  life  itself  he  hut  a  shadowy  dream. 
The  act  and  working  of  an  evil  will ! — 
Dread  scope  of  phantasy  and  passion's  power  ! 
Oh  God  !  take  hack  the  hoon,  the  precious  gii\ 
Of  will  mysterious. — Give  me,  give  again, 
The  infliction  dire,  fell  opiate  of  my  griefs : 
Sharp  wound,  hut  in  the  smart  the  panoply 
And  bhield  against  temptations,  that  assail 
My  weak  and  yielding  spirit ! — Madness  come 
The  halm  to  guilt,  the  safeguard  from  remorse 
Make  me  forget,  and  save  me  from  myself ! 


A  BIRD,  who  for  his  other  sins 
Had  liv'd  amongst  the  Jacobins  ; 
Tho'  like  a  kitten  amid  rats. 
Or  callow  tit  in  nest  of  bats, 
He  much  abhorr'd  all  democrats  ; 
Yet  nathless  stood  in  ill  report 
Of  wishing  ill  to  Church  and  Court. 
Tho'  he'd  nor  claw,  nor  tooth,  nor  sting. 
And  learnt  to  pipe  God  save  the  King  ; 
Tho'  each  day  did  new  feathers  bring. 
All  swore  he  had  a  leathern  wing ; 
Nor  polish'd  wing,  nor  feather'd  tail, 
Nor  down-clad  thigh  would  aught  avail ; 
And  tho' — his  tongue  devoid  of  gall — 
He  civilly  assur'd  them  all : — 
"  A  bird  am  I  of  PhGebus'  breed. 
And  on  the  sunflower  cling  and  feed  ; 


My  name,  good  Siis^  is  Thonuui  Tit  !'* 
The  bata  would  hail  him  brother  cit. 
Or,  at  the  furthest,  cousin-german. 
At  length  the  matter  to  determine. 
He  publicly  denounced  the  vermin  ; 
He  spared  the  mouse,  he  prais'd  the  owl ; 
But  bats  were  neither  flesh  nor  fowl. 
Blood-sucker,  vampire,  harpy,  goul, 
Came  in  full  clatter  from  his  throat, 
Till  his  old  nest-mates  chang'd  their  note 
To  hireling,  traitor,  and  turncoat, — 
A  base  apostate  who  had  sold 
His  very  teeth  and  claws  for  gold  ; — 
A  nd  then  his  feathers  ! — sharp  the  jest^ 
No  doubt  he  fcather'd  well  his  nest ! 
A  Tit  indeed  !  aye,  tit  for  tat — 
With  place  and  title,  brother  Bat, 
We  soon  shall  see  how  well  he'll  play 
(Jount  Goldfinch,  or  Sir  Joseph  Jay  I 

Alas,  poor  Bird  !  and  ill-bestarred — 
Or  rather  let  us  say;  poor  Bard  I 
And  henceforth  quit  the  allegoric 

With  metaphor  and  simile, 
For  simple  facts  and  style  historic  : — 
Alas,  poor  Bard  !  no  gold  had  he 
Behind  another's  team  he  stept, 
And  plough'd,  and  sow'd,  while  others  reapt ; 
The  work  was  his,  but  theirs  the  glory. 
Sic  voa  non  vobis,  his  whole  stor\'. 
Besides,  whate'er  he  WTote  or  said 
Came  from  his  heart  as  M-ell  as  head  ; 
And  tho'  he  never  left  in  lurch 
His  king,  his  country,  or  his  church, 
'Twas  but  to  humor  his  own  cynical 
Contempt  of  doctrines  Jacobinical ; 
To  his  own  conscience  only  hearty, 
'Twas  but  by  chance  he  serv'd  the  party  ;— 
The  self-same  things  had  said  and  writ. 
Had  Pitt  been  Fox,  and  Fox  been  Pitt ; 


Conteut  his  own  applause  to  win 
Would  never  dash  thro'  thick  and  thin, 
And  he  can  make,  so  say  the  wise, 
No  claim  who  makes  no  sacrifice  ; — 
And  hard  still  less  : — what  claim  had  he, 
Who  swore  it  vex'd  his  soul  to  see 
So  grand  a  cause,  so  proud  a  realm 
With  Goose  and  Goody  at  the  helm  ; 
Who  long  ago  had  fall'n  asunder 
But  for  their  rivals,  baser  blunder, 
The  coward  whine  and  Frenchified 
Slaver  and  slang  of  the  other  side  ? — 

Thus,  his  own  whim  his  only  bribe, 
Our  bard  pursued  his  old  A.  B.  C. 
Contented  if  he  could  subscribe 
In  fullest  sense  his  name  "Eajt^us  ; 
('Tis  Punic  Greek,  *  for  he  hath  stood  !') 
Whate'er  the  men,  the  cause  was  good  ; 
And  therefore  with  a  right  good  will, 
Poor  fool,  he  fights  their  battles  still. 
Tush  !  squeaked  the  Bats  ; — a  mere  bravado 
To  whitewash  that  base  renegade  ; 
'Tis  plain  unless  youVe  blind  or  mad. 
His  conscience  for  the  bays  he  barters  ; — 
And  true  it  is — as  true  as  sad — 
These  circlets  of  green  baize  he  had — 
But  then,  alas  !  they  were  his  garters  ! 

Ah  !  silly  Bard,  unfed,  untended, 
His  lamp  but  glimmer'd  in  its  socket ; 
He  liv'd  unhonor'd  and  unfriended 
With  scarce  a  penny  in  his  pocket ; — 
Nay — tho'  he  hid  it  from  the  many — 
With  scarce  a  pocket  for  his  penny  I 


'*  Fie,  Mr.  Coleridge  ! — and  can  this  be  you  ? 
Break  two  commandments  ?   and  in  church-time  too  ! 
Have  you  not  heard,  or  have  you  heard  in  vain, 
The  birth  and  parentage-recording  strain  ? 


Confessions  shrill,  that  out-shriU'd  mack*rel 
Fresh  from  the  drop,  the  youth  not  yet  cut  down. 
Letter  to  sweetheart — ^the  last  dying  speech — 
And  didn't  all  this  begin  in  Sabbath  breach  ? 
You,  that  knew  better  !     In  broad  open  day, 
Steal  in,  steal  out,  and  steal  our  flowers  away  ? 
What  could  possess  you  ?     Ah  !  sweet  youth,  I  fear. 
The  chap  with  horns  and  tail  was  at  your  ear !" 

Such  sounds  of  late,  accusing  fancy  brought 

From  fair to  the  Poet's  thought. 

Now  hear  the  meek  Parnassian  youth's  reply  :-«- 
A  bow,  a  pleading  look,  a  downcast  eye, — 
And  then  : 

'*  Fair  dame  !  a  visionary  wight. 
Hard  by  your  hill-side  mansion  sparkling  white, 
His  thoughts  all  hovering  round  the  Muses'  home, 
Long  hath  it  been  your  Poet's  wont  to  roam. 
And  many  a  morn,  on  his  becharmed  sense 
So  rich  a  stream  of  music  issued  thence 
He  deem'd  himself,  as  it  flowed  warbling  on. 
Beside  the  vocal  fount  of  Helicon  I 
But  when,  as  if  to  settle  the  concern, 
A  nymph  too  he  beheld,  in  many  a  turn. 
Guiding  the  sweet  rill  from  its  fontal  urn, — 
Say,  can  you  blame? — No  I  none  that  saw  and  heard 
Could  blame  a  bard,  that  he  thus  inly  stirr'd ; 
A  mu^e  beholding  in  each  fervent  trait, 

Took  Mary for  Polly  Hymnia  I 

Or  haply  as  there  stood  beside  the  maid 

One  loftier  form  in  sable  stole  array 'd, 

If  with  regretful  thought  he  hail'd  in  thee 

,  his  long-lost  friend,  Mol  Pomene  I 

But  most  of  you,  soft  warblings,  I  complain  I 
'Twas  ye  that  from  the  bee-hive  of  my  brain 
Lured  the  wild  fancies  forth,  a  freakish  rout, 
And  witched  the  air  with  dreams  turned  inside  out. 

Thus  all  conspir'd — each  power  of  eye  and  ear. 
And  this  gay  month  th'  enchantress  of  the  year. 


To  cheat  poor  me  (no  conjurer,  God  wot  I) 

And *8  self  accomplice  in  the  plot. 

Can  you  then  wonder  if  I  went  astray  ? 

Not  bards  alone,  nor  lovers  mad  as  they  ; — 

All  nature  day-dreams  in  the  month  of  May. 

And  if  I  plucked  each  flower  that  sweetest  blows, — 

Wlio  walks  in  sleep,  needs  follow  must  his  nose. 

Thus,  long  accustom'd  on  the  twy-fork'd  hill, 

To  pluck  both  flower  and  floweret  at  my  will ; 

The  garden's  maze,  like  No-man'sland,  I  tread, 

Nor  common  law,  nor  statute  in  my  head  ; 

For  my  own  proper  smell,  sight,  fancy,  feeling, 

With  autocratic  hand  at  once  repealing 

Five  Acts  of  Parliament  'gainst  private  stealing ! 

But  yet  from who  despairs  of  grace  ? 

There's  no  spring-gun  or  man-trap  in  that  face  ! 
Let  Moses  then  look  black,  and  Aaron  blue, 
That  look  as  if  they  had  little  else  to  do : 

For speaks,  "  Poor  youth  I  he's  but  a  waif  I 

The  spoons  all  right  ?  the  hen  and  chickens  sale  ? 

Well,  well,  he  shall  not  forfeit  our  regards — 

T!ie  Ein^hth  Commandment  was  not  made  for  Bards !" 


^1   a  premonition  promulgated  gratia  for  the  use  of  the  Useful  Classes, 
tipeoially  those  resident  in  St.  Giles's,  Saffron  Hill.  Bethual  Green,  <fec 
and  likewise,  inasmuch  as  the  good  man  is  merciful  even  to  the  bea^t^ 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Bulls  and  Bears  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 

Pains  ventral,  subventral, 

In  stomach  or  entrail. 

Think  no  longer  mere  prefaces 

For  grins,  groans,  and  wry  faces  ; 
But  ofl'  to  the  doctor,  fast  as  ye  can  crawl  I — 
Yet  far  better  'twould  be  not  to  have  them  at  all. 

Now  to  'scape  inward  aches, 
Eat  no  plums  nor  plum-cakes ; 
Cry  avaunt !  new  potatoe-^ 
And  don't  drink,  like  old  Cato. 


Ah !  beware  of  Dispipey, 

And  don't  ye  get  tipey ! 

For  tho'  gin  and  whiskey 

May  make  yon  feel  frisky, 

They're  but  crimps  to  Dispipsy ; 

And  nose  to  tail,  with  this  gipsy 

Comes,  black  as  a  porpus, 

The  diabolus  ipse, 

Caird  Cholery  Morpns ; 
Whc  with  horns,  hoofs,  and  tail,  croaks  for  carrion  to  feed  him 
Tho'  being  a  Devil,  no  one  never  has  seed  him  ! 

Ah  !  then  my  dear  honies, 
There's  no  cure  for  you 
For  loves  nor  for  monies  : — 
You'll  find  it  too  true. 
Och  !  the  hallabaloo  ! 
Och  !  och  I  how  you'll  wail, 
When  the  oflal-fed  vagrant 
Shall  turn  you  as  blue 
As  the  gas-light  unfragrant, 
That  gushes  in  jets  from  beneath  his  own  tail  ;— 
'Till  swiil  as  the  mail, 
He  at  last  brings  the  cramps  on, 
That  will  twist  you  like  Samson. 

So  without  further  blethring. 

Dear  mudlarks  !  my  brethren  I 

Of  all  scents  and  degrees, 

(Yourselves  and  your  slies) 

Forswear  all  cabal,  lads, 

Wakes,  unions,  and  rows. 

Hot  dreams,  and  cold  salads 
And  don't  pig  in  sties  that  would  suffocate  sows ! 
ftuit  Cobbett's.  O'Connell's,  and  Beelzebub's  banners. 
And  whitewash  at  once  bowels,  rooms,  hands,  and  manners 



In  Kohli),  a  town  of  monks  and  bonea, 

And  pavements  faiig'd  with  murderous  stones, 

And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches ; 

I  counted  two  and  seventy  stenches, 

AH  well-defined,  and  several  stinks  ! 

Ye  Nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks. 

The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known. 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne ; 

But  tell  me,  Nymphs  1  what  power  divine 

ijhall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine? 


And  now  at  least  a  merry  one, 

Mr.  Mum's  Rudesheimer 

And  the  church  of  St.  Gerj'on 

Are  the  two  things  alone 

That  deserve  to  bo  kuown 
In  the  body  and  soul-slink  in  g  town  of  Cologna. 


Paiirt  seeks  the  polar  ridge  ; 

Rhymeti  seeks  ^  T.  Colerid^, 

Author  of  works,  whereof — tho'  not  in  Dutch — 

The  public  little  knows — the  publisher  too  much. 


YoL'ft  poem  must  eternal  be. 
Dear  Sir  1   it  can  not  fail  I 

For  'tis  incomprehensible. 
And  without  head  or  taiL 



Trdchee  trips  frdm  lOng  t6  shdrt ; 

From  long  to  long  in  6olemn  sort 

Slow  spOnd^e  stalks ;  strOng  foot !  yet  ill  able 

Ever  to  cOme  up  with  Dactyl  trisyllable. 

Iambics  march  fr6m  shOrt  t6  l6ng ; — 

With  k  leap  and  a  bound  th^  swift  An&polsts  thrOng ; 

One  syllabic  long,  with  one  short  at  each  side, 

Amphibrachys  hastes  with  a  stately  stride  ; — 

First  and  last  being  lOng,  middle  shdrt,  Aihphimacer 

Strikes  his  thOndSriug  hoofs  like  a  prolid  high-bred  Racer. 

If  Derwent  be  innocent,  steady,  and  wise, 
And  delight  in  the  things  of  earth,  water,  and  skies ; 
Tender  warmth  at  his  heart,  with  these  metres  to  show  it. 
With  sound  sense  in  his  brains,  may  make  Derwent  a  poet, — 
May  crown  him  with  fame,  and  must  win  him  the  loVo 
Of  his  father  on  earth  and  his  Father  above. 

My  dear,  dear  child  I 
Could  you  stand  upon  Skiddaw,  you  would  not  from  its  whole  ridgs 
Sc*»  a  man  who  so  loves  you  as  your  fond  S.  T.  Coleridge. 



Strongly  it  bears  us  along  in  swelling  and  limitless  billows. 
Nothing  before  and  nothing  behind  but  the  sky  and  the  Oceao, 


In  the  hexameter  rises  the  fountain's  silvery  column ; 
In  the  pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  back. 


Kayser  !  to  whom,  as  to  a  second  self, 
Nature,  or  Nature's  next-of-kin,  the  Elf 
Right  Genius,  hath  dispensed  the  happy  skill 
To  cheer  or  soothe  the  parting  friend's,  alas  ^ 



Turning  the  blank  scroll  to  a  magic  glus. 
That  makes  the  absent  present  ut  our  will ; 
And  to  the  shadowing  of  thy  pencil  gives 
Such  seeming  substance,  that  it  almost  lives, 

Wei]  haBt  thou  given  the  thoughtful  Poet's  face : 
Yet  bast  thou  on  the  tablet  of  hia  mind 
A  more  delightful  portrait  left  behind — 
Ev'ii  thy  own  youthful  beauty,  and  artless  graoe. 
Thy  natural  gladness  and  eyes  bright  with  glee '. 

Kayser !  farewell ! 
Be  wise !  be  happy  !  and  forget  not  me. 


Sly  Beelzebub  look  all  occasions 
To  try  Job's  constancy  and  patience  ; 
He  took  his  honors,  look  his  health, 
He  took  his  cbildron,  took  his  wealth. 
His  camels,  horses,  asses,  cows — 
And  the  sly  Devil  did  not  take  his  spouse. 

But  Heaven  that  brings  out  good  from  evil, 
And  loves  to  disappoint  the  Devil, 
Had  predetermined  lo  restore 
Twofoli)  all  Job  had  belbre. 
His  children,  camels,  horses,  cows — 
Short-sighted  Devil,  not  lo  take  his  spouse  ! 


Swap's  sing  before  they  die  :  'twere  no^  bad  thing. 
Should  certain  persons  die  before  they  sing. 


'Tis  Cipher  lies  beneath  this  crust — 
Whom  Death  created  into  dust. 



WiiAT  a  spring-tide  of  Love  to  dear  friends  ia  a  shoal ! 
Half  of  it  to  one  were  worth  doable  the  whole  ! 


To  praise  men  as  good»  and  to  take  them  for  such. 
Is  a  grace,  which  no  soul  can  mete  out  to  a  tittle ;— > 

Of  which  he  who  has  not  a  little  too  much, 

Will  by  Charity's  gage  surely  have  much  too  little. 


FiiAiL  creatures  are  we  all  !  To  be  the  best. 
Is  but  the  fewest  faults  to  have  : — 

Look  thou  then  to  thyself,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  God,  thy  conscience,  and  the  grave. 



••  Be,  rather  than  be  called,  a  child  of  God," 
Death  whispered  I — with  assenting  nod. 
Its  head  upon  its  mother's  breast. 
The  Babv  bowed,  without  demur — 


Of  the  kingdom  of  the  Blest 
Possessor,  not  inheritor. 


WHO    DIED   ON    THE    IGtH    OF    JANUARY,    1834.* 

O  FKAiL  as  sweet !  twin  buds,  too  rathe  to  bear 

The  Winter's  unkind  air  ; 
0  irifts  beyond  all  price,  no  sooner  given 

Thau  straight  required  by  Heaven  ; 

*  Bv  a  friend. 


Matched  jewels,  vainly  for  a  moment  lent 

To  deck  my  brow,  or  sent 
Untainted  from  the  earth,  as  Christ's,  to  soar, 

And  add  two  spirits  more 
To  that  dread  baud  seraphic,  that  doth  lio 

Beneath  the  Almighty's  eye  ; — 
Glorious  the  thought — yet  ah  !  my  babes,  ah  !  still 

A  father's  heart  ye  fill ; 
Though  cold  ye  lie  in  earth — though  gentle  death 

Hath  suck'd  your  balmy  breath, 
And  the  last  kiss  which  your  fair  cheeks  I  gave 

Is  buried  in  yon  grave. 
No  tears — no  tears — I  wish  them  not  again  ; 

To  die  for  them  was  gain, 
Ere  Doubt,  or  Fear,  or  Woe,  or  act  of  Sin 

Had  marr'd  God's  light  within. 

— E  ccbIo  descendit  yvOdi  aeavTov. — Juvenal. 

Fvwdi  oBavtbv  I — and  is  this  the  prime 

And  heaven-sprung  adage  of  the  olden  time ! — 

Say,  canst  thou  make  thyself? — Learn  first  that  trade  ;- 

Haply  thou  mayst  know  what  thyself  had  made. 

What  hast  thou,  Man,  that  thou  dar'st  call  thine  own  ?- 

What  is  there  in  thee,  Man,  that  can  bo  known  ? — 

Dark  fluxion,  all  untixable  by  thought, 

A  phantom  dim  of  past  and  future  wrought. 

Vain  sister  of  the  worm, — life,  death,  soul,  clod — 

Ignore  thyself,  and  strive  to  know  thy  vjod  1 

Beareth  all  things. — 2  Cor.  xiii.  7. 

Gently  I  took  that  which  ungently  came, 
And  without  scorn  forgave  : — Do  thou  the  same. 
A  wrong  done  to  thee  think  a  cat's  eye  spark 
Thou  would st  not  see,  were  not  thine  own  heart  dark. 
Thine  own  keen  sense  of  wrong  that  thirsts  for  sin. 
Fear  that — the  spark  self-kindled  from  within, 
Which  blown  upon  will  blind  thee  with  its  glare, 
Or  smother'd  stifle  thee  with  noisome  air. 


Nay,  I  could  write  a  book  myself. 
Would  fit  a  parson's  lower  shelf, 
Showing  how  very  good  you  are. — 
What  then  ?  sometimes  it  must  be  fair  I 
And  if  sometimes,  why  not  tcwiay  ? 
Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away  ! 

Dear  Kain  !  if  I've  been  cold  and  shy, 

Take  no  offence !     I'll  tell  you  why. 

A  dear  old  Friend  e'en  now  is  here, 

And  with  him  came  my  sister  dear ; 

After  long  absence  now  first  met. 

Long  months  by  pain  and  grief  beset — 

With  three  dear  friends  !  in  truth,  we  groaa- 

Impatiently  to  be  alone. 

We  three,  you  mark  !  and  not  one  more ! 

The  strong  wish  makes  my  spirit  sore. 

We  have  so  much  to  talk  about, 

So  many  sad  things  to  let  out ; 

So  many  tears  in  our  eye-corners. 

Sitting  like  little  Jacky  Homers — 

In  short,  as  soon  as  it  is  day, 

Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away. 

And  this  I'll  swear  to  you,  dear  Rain ! 

Whenever  you  shall  come  again, 

Be  you  as  dull  as  e'er  you  could, 

(And  by  the  bye  'tis  understood. 

You're  not  so  pleasant  as  you're  good) 

Yet  knowing  well  your  worth  and  place, 

I'll  welcome  you  with  cheerful  face  ; 

And  though  you  stayed  a  week  or  rnore» 

Were  ten  times  duller  than  before  ; 

Yet  with  kind  heart,  and  right  good  will, 

I'll  sit  and  listen  to  you  still  ; 

Nor  should  you  go  away,  dear  Rain  I 

Uninvited  to  remain. 

But  only  now,  for  this  one  day, 

Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away. 



We  pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I, — 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  cloBping  ; 

I  could  not  tell  the  reason  why, 
But,  ob  :  I  trembled  like  an  aspen. 

Ber  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain  ; 

I  went  and  abook  like  any  reed  ! 
I  strove  to  act  the  man  in  vain  ! 

We  had  exchanged  our  hearts  indeed. 


T[iE  butterfly  the  ancient  Grecians  made 

The  soul's  fair  emblem,  and  its  only  name — 

But  of  the  soul,  escaped  tba  Hlavigb  trade 

Of  mortal  life ! — For  in  this  earthly  frame 

Oiir's  is  the  reptile's  lot,  much  toil,  much  blame, 

Manifold  motions  making  little  speed, 

And  to  deform  and  kill  tbo  things  whereon  we  feed. 


O'er  wayward  childhood  wouldst  tboii  hold  firm  rule. 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces  ; 
Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 
For  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven's  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it, — to 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
or  Education, — Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 
Methinks,  I  see  them  grouped,  in  seemly  show. 
The  straitened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope. 
And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow. 
Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  embossed  in  snow. 


Marquu  Y aldez,  father  to  the  two  brother$,  and  J)ona  Tbeiba's 
Don  Alyab,  Ike  eldest  ton. 
Don  Okoonio,  the  youngest  atm. 
MoNViEDBO,  a  Dominican  and  inquisitor. 
ZuLiMEZ,  the  faithful  attendant  on  Alvab. 
Isidore,  a  Moreseo  chieftain^  ostensibly  a  Chrittims, 
•  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition, 


^ Moors,  Servauli',  d:c. 
Dona  Teeesa,  an  orphan  hei rests. 
Alhadra,  vfife  of  Isidore. 

Time — 7^e  reign  of  Puiup  II.,  juft  at  the  close  of  the  civil  wars  agaisist  tkt 
Moors,  and  during  the  heat  of  the  persecution  which  raged  against  tA«Mi, 

shortly  after  the  edict  which  forbade  the  wearing  of  Moreseo  apparel '" 

pain  of  death. 

ScESE  I. — The  sea-shore,  on  tiie  const  of  Granada. 

Don  Alvar,  tcrapt  in  a  boat  doak,  and  Zulimez  (a  Moren-a),  6olk 
as  just  landed. 

Zul.  No  Bound,  no  face  of  joy  to  welcome  us ! 

Ale.  My  Taithful  Zulimez,  for  one  brief  moment 
Let  inu  forget  my  anguish  and  their  crimea. 
If  aught  on  earth  demand  an  unmix'd  feeling, 
'Tig  Bureljr  this — after  long  years  of  exile. 
To  step  forth  on  firm  land,  and  gazing  round  us, 
To  hail  at  once  our  country,  and  our  hirth-place. 
Hail,  Spain  !  Granada,  hail !  once  more  I  pren 
Thy  Bands  with  filial  awe,  land  of  my  fathers ! 

ZuL  Then  claim  your  rights  in  it !  0,  revered  Don  Alvu 
Yet,  yet  give  up  your  all  too  gentle  purpose. 
It  is  too  hazardous  !  reveal  yourself, 
And  let  the  guilty  meet  the  doom  of  guilt ! 

Alv.  Kemembcr,  Zulimez !  I  am  his  brother. 
Injured  indeed  I  0  deeply  injured  1  yet 
Ordonio's  brother. 

Zul.  Nobly  minded  Alvar  ! 

This  Bure  but  gives  his  guilt  a  blacker  dye. 

Alv.  The  more  behooves  it,  I  should  rouse  within  him 
Iteinorse  I  that  I  should  save  him  from  himself. 

Zul.  Rcmorae  is  as  the  heart  iit  which  it  gro\^'s  : 
If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
or  true  repentance  ;  but  if  proud  and  gloomy. 
It  is  a  poison-tree,  that  pierced  to  the  inmost 
Weepi  only  teats  of  poison. 

846  REMORSE. 

Alv.  And  of  a  brother, 

Dare  I  hold  this,  unproved  ?  nor  make  one  efibrt 
To  save  him  ? — Hear  me,  friend !  I  have  yet  to  tell  thee. 
That  this  same  life,  which  he  conspired  to  take, 
Himself  once  rescued  from  the  angry  flood, 
And  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  own. 
Add  too  my  oath — 

Zul.  You  have  thrice  told  already 

The  years  of  absence  and  of  secrecy. 
To  which  a  forced  oath  bound  you  :  if  in  truth 
A  suborned  murderer  have  the  power  to  dictate 
A  binding  oath — 

Alv.  My  long  captivity 

Left  me  no  choice  :  the  very  wish  too  languished 
With  the  fond  hope  that  nursed  it ;  the  sick  babe 
Drooped  at  the  bosom  of  its  famished  mother. 
But  (more  than  all)  Teresa's  perfidy  ; 
The  assassin's  strong  assurance,  when  no  interest. 
No  motive  could  have  tempted  him  to  falsehood : 
In  the  first  pangs  of  his  awakened  conscience. 
When  with  abhorrence  of  his  own  black  purpose 
The  murderous  weapon,  pointed  at  ray  breast, 
Fell  from  his  palsied  hand — 

Ztil.  Heavy  presimiption  f 

Alv.  It  weighed  not  with  me — Hark  I  1  will  tell  thea  all ; 
As  we  passed  by,  I  bade  thee  mark  the  base 
Of  yonder  cli fl' — 

Zul.  That  rocky  seat  you  mean. 

Shaped  by  the  billows  ? — 

Alu,  There  Teresa  met  me 

The  morning  of  the  day  of  my  departure. 
We  were  alone  :  the  purple  hue  of  dawn 
Fell  from  the  kindling  east  aslant  upon  us, 
And  blending  with  the  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
Sufiused  the  tear-drops  there  with  rosy  light. 
There  seemed  a  glor}'  round  us,  and  Teresa 
The  angel  of  the  vision  I 

Had'st  thou  seen 
How  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  and  brightened,  thou  thyself  would'st  tell  mo. 

REMORSE.  847 

'J  uilt  is  a  thing  impossible  ia  her  ! 
She  must  be  innocent ! 

Zid.  Proceed,  my  lord  ! 

Alv.  A  portrait  which  she  had  procured  by  stealth, 
^For  even  then  it  seems  her  heart  foreboded 
Or  knew  Ordonio's  moody  rivalry) 
4.  portrait  of  herself  with  thrilling  hand 
the  tied  around  my  neck,  conjuring  me. 
With  earnest  prayers,  that  I  would  keep  it  sacred 
To  my  own  knowledge  :  nor  did  she  desist, 
Till  she  had  won  a  solemn  promise  from  me. 
That  (save  my  own)  no  eye  should  e'er  behold  it 
Till  my  return.     Yet  this  the  assassin  knew. 
Knew  that  which  none  but  she  could  have  disclosed. 

ZuL  A  damning  proof ! 

Ali\  My  own  life  wearied  me  ! 

And  but  for  the  imperative  voice  within. 
With  mine  own  hand  I  had  thrown  off  the  burthen. 
That  voice,  which  quelled  me,  calmed  me  :  and  I  mnght 
The  Belgic  states  :  there  joined  the  better  cause  ; 
And  there  too  fought  as  one  that  courted  death ! 
Wounded,  I  fell  among  the  dead  and  dying, 
In  deathlike  trance  :  a  long  imprisonment  followed 
The  fulness  of  my  anguish  by  degrees 
Waned  to  a  meditative  melancholy  ; 
And  still  the  more  I  mused,  my  soul  became 
More  doubtful,  more  perplexed  ;  and  still  Teresa, 
Night  after  night,  she  visited  my  sleep  ; 
Now  as  a  saintly  sufferer,  wan  and  tearful, 
Now  as  a  saint  in  glory  beckoning  to  mc  ! 
Yes,  still  as  in  contempt  of  proof  and  reason, 
I  cherish  the  fond  faith  that  she  is  guiltless  ! 
Hear  then  my  fix'd  resolve  :  I'll  linger  here 
In  the  disguise  of  a  Morcsco  chieftain. — 
The  Moorish  robes  ? — 

Zul.  All,  all  are  in  the  sea-cave, 

Some  furlong  hence.     I  bade  our  mariners 
Secrete  the  boat  there. 

Alv.  Above  ail,  the  picture 

Of  the  assassination — 

848  REMORBE. 

Zul.  Be  assured 

That  it  remains  uninjuied. 

Alv.  Thus  disguised 

I  will  first  seek  to  meet  Ordonio's — ^wife  I 
If  possible,  alone  too.     This  was  her  wonted  walk, 
A.nd  this  the  hour ;  her  words,  her  very  looks 
Will  acquit  her  or  convict. 

Zul.  Will  they  not  know  you  ? 

Alv.  With  your  aid,  friend,  I  shall  unfearingly 
Trust  the  disguise  ;  and  as  to  my  complexion. 
My  long  imprisonment,  the  scanty  food. 
This  scar, — and  toil  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
Have  done  already  half  the  business  for  us. 
Add  too  my  youth  : — since  last  we  saw  each  other. 
Manhood  has  swoln  my  chest,  and  taught  my  voiea 
A  hoarser  note — ^Besides,  they  think  me  dead  ; 
And  what  the  mind  believes  impossible, 
The  bodily  sense  is  slow  to  recognize. 

Zul.  'Tis  yours,  sir,  to  command,  mine  to  obey. 
Now  to  the  cave  beneath  the  vaulted  rock, 
Mrliere  having  shaped  you  to  a  Moorish  chiei\ain, 
ril  seek  our  mariners  ;  and  in  the  dusk 
Transport  whate'er  we  need  to  the  small  dell 
lu  the  Alpuj arras — there  where  Zagri  lived. 

Alv.  I  know  it  well  :  it  is  the  obscurest  haunt 
Of  all  the  mountains —  [both  stand  listening.] 

Voices  at  a  distance ! 
liCt  us  away  !  Exeunt 

Scene  II. — Enter  Teresa  and  Valdez 

Ter.  I  hold  Ordonio  iear  ;  he  is  your  son 
And  Alvar's  brother. 

Val.  Love  him  for  himself. 

Nor  make  the  living  wretched  for  the  dead. 

Ter.  I  mourn  that  you  should  plead  in  vain,  Lord  Valdez; 
But  heaven  hath  heard  my  vow,  and  I  remain 
Faithful  to  Alvar,  be  he  dead  or  living. 

Val.  Heaven  knows  with  what  delight  I  saw  your  loves, 
And  could  my  heart's  blood  give  him  back  to  thee 

KEMOKSfi.  849 

I  would  die  smiling.     But  these  are  idle  thoughts ! 

Thy  dying  father  comes  upon  my  soul 

With  that  same  look,  with  which  he  gave  thee  to  me ; 

I  held  thee  in  my  arms  a  powerless  habe. 

While  thy  poor  mother,  with  a  mute  entreaty, 

Fixed  her  faint  eyes  on  mine.     Ah  !  not  for  this, 

That  I  should  let  thee  feed  Uiy  soul  wilh  gloom, 

And  with  slow  anguish  wear  away  thy  life, 

The  victim  of  a  useless  constancy. 

I  must  not  see  thee  wretched. 

Ter,  There  are  woes 

111  bartered  for  the  garishness  of  joy  ! 
If  it  be  wretched  with  an  untired  eye 
To  watch  those  skyey  tints,  and  this  green  ocean ; 
Or  in  the  sultry  hour  beneath  some  rock, 
My  hair  dishevelled  by  the  pleasant  sea  breeze, 
To  shape  sweet  visions,  and  live  o'er  again 
All  past  hours  of  delight !     If  it  be  wretched 
To  watch  some  bark,  and  fancy  Alvar  there. 
To  go  through  each  minutest  circumstance 
or  the  blest  meeting,  and  to  frame  adventures 
Most  terrible  and  strange,  and  hear  him  tell  them ; 
(As  once  I  knew  a  crazy  Moorish  maid 
Who  dress' d  her  in  her  buried  lover's  clothes. 
And  o'er  the  smooth  spring  in  the  mountain  cleft 
Hung  with  her  lute,  and  played  the  self-same  tunc 
He  used  to  play,  and  listened  to  the  shadow 
Herself  had  made) — if  this  be  wretchedness. 
And  if  indeed  it  be  a  wretched  thing 
To  trick  out  mine  own  death-bed,  and  imagine 
That  I  had  died,  died  just  ere  his  return  ! 
Then  see  him  listening  to  my  constancy. 
Or  hover  round,  as  he  at  midnight  oft 
•Sits  on  my  grave,  and  gazes  at  the  moon  ; 
Or  haply  in  some  moie  fantastic  mood. 
To  be  in  Paradise,  and  with  choice  flowers 
Build  up  a  bower  where  he  and  I  might  dwell. 
And  there  to  wait  his  coming !     0  my  sire ! 
My  Alvar's  sire !  if  this  be  wretchedness 
That  eats  away  the  life,  what  were  it,  think  you, 

850  REMORSE. 

If  in  a  most  assured  reality 

He  should  return,  and  see  a  brother's  infant 

Smile  at  him  from  my  arms  ? 

Oh  what  a  thought ! 

VaL  A  thought  ?  even  so !  mere  thought !  an  empty  thooght. 
The  very  week  he  promised  his  return 

Tcr,  Was  it  not  then  a  busy  joy  J  to  see  him, 
After  those  three  years'  travels  !  we  had  no  fears — 
The  frequent  tidings,  the  ne'er  failing  letter. 
Almost  endeared  his  absence  !     Yet  the  gladness, 
The  tumult  of  our  joy !     What  then  if  now 

Vol,  0  power  of  youth  to  feed  on  pleasant  thoughts, 
Spite  of  conviction !    I  am  old  and  heartless ! 
Yes,  I  am  old — I  have  no  pleasant  fancies — 
Hectic  and  unrefreshed  with  rest 

Ter,  My  father ! 

Val.  The  sober  truth  is  all  too  much  for  me  ! 
I  see  no  sail  which  brings  not  to  my  mind 
The  home-bound  bark  in  which  my  son  was  captured 
By  the  Algerine — to  perish  with  his  captors  ! 

Ter.  Oh  no !  he  did  not ! 

Val.  Captured  in  sight  of  laud  I 

From  yon  hill  point,  nay,  from  our  castle  watch-tower 
We  might  have  seen 

Ter.  His  capture,  not  his  death 

Veil.  Alas  I  how  aptly  thou  forget'st  a  tale 
Thou  ne'er  didst  wish  to  learn  !  my  brave  Ordonio 
Saw  both  the  pirate  and  his  prize  go  down, 
In  the  same  storm  that  baffled  his  own  valor. 
And  thus  twice  snatched  a  brother  from  his  hopes : 
Gallant  Ordonio  !  0  beloved  Teresa, 
AVouldst  thou  best  prove  thy  faith  to  generous  Alvar, 
And  most  delight  his  spirit,  go,  make  thou 
His  brother  happy,  make  his  aged  father 
Sink  to  the  grave  in  joy. 

Ter.  For  mercy's  sake 

Press  me  no  more  I     I  have  no  power  to  love  him. 
Uis  proud  forbidding  eye,  and  his  dark  brow, 
Chill  me  like  dew  damos  of  the  unwholesome  night ; 

REMORSE.  a6] 

Bf  y  love,  a  timorous  and  tender  flower, 
Closes  beneath  his  touch. 

Val.  You  wrong  him,  maiden ! 

You  wrong  him,  by  my  soul  !     Nor  was  it  well 
To  character  by  such  unkindly  phrases 
The  stir  and  workings  of  that  love  for  you 
Which  he  has  toiled  to  smother.     'Twas  not  well, 
Nor  is  it  grateful  in  you  to  forget 
His  wounds  and  perilous  voyages,  and  how 
With  an  heroic  fearlessness  of  danger 
He  roam'd  the  coast  of  Afric  for  your  Alvar. 
It  was  not  well — You  have  moved  me  even  to  tears. 

Tcr.  0  pardon  me.  Lord  Valdez  I  pardon  me  ! 
It  was  a  foolish  and  ungrateful  speech, 
A  most  ungrateful  speech  I     But  I  am  hurried 
Beyond  myself,  if  1  but  hear  of  one 
Who  aims  to  rival  Alvar.     Were  we  not 
Born  in  one  day,  like  twins  of  the  same  parent  ? 
Nursed  in  one  cradle  ?     Pardon  me,  my  father ! 
A  six  years'  absence  is  a  heavy  thing, 
Yet  still  the  hope  survives 

Val.  (looking  forward).  Hush  !  *tis  Monviedro. 

Tcr.  The  Inquisitor  !  on  what  new  scent  of  blood  ? 
Enter  Monviedro  with  Alliadra. 

Mon.  Peace  and  the  truth  be  with  you  I     Good  my  Lord, 
My  present  need  is  with  your  son. 
We  have  hit  the  time.     Here  comes  he  1     Yes,  His  he. 
Enter  frojn  the  opposite  side  Don  Ordoyiio. 
My  Lord  Ordonio,  this  Moresco  woman 
(Alhadra  is  her  name)  asks  audience  of  you. 

Otd.  Hail,  reverend  father!  what  may  be  the  business? 

Mon.  My  lord,  on  strong  suspicion  of  relapse 
To  his  false  creed,  so  recently  abjured, 
The  secret  servants  of  the  Inquisition 
Have  seized  her  husband,  and  at  my  conmiand 
To  the  supreme  tribunal  would  have  led  him, 
But  that  he  made  appeal  to  you,  my  lord, 
As  surety  for  his  soundness  in  the  faith. 
Though  lessoned  by  experience  what  small  trust 
The  asseverations  of  these  Moors  deserve 

252  REMOKSS. 

Yet  still  the  deference  to  Ordonio's  name, 
Nor  less  the  wish  to  prove  vrith  what  high  honor 
The  Holy  Church  regards  her  faithful  soldiers, 
Thus  far  prevailed  with  me  that 

Ord.  Keverend  fathar, 

1  am  much  heholden  to  your  high  opinion, 
Which  so  overprizes  my  light  services. 

[then  to  Alhadra. 
I  would  that  I  could  serve  you  ;  but  in  truth 
Your  face  is  new  to  me. 

Mon.  My  mind  foretold  me, 

That  such  would  be  the  event.     In  truth,  Lord  Yaldez, 
'Twas  little  probable  that  Don  Ordonio, 
That  your  illustrious  son,  who  fought  so  bravely 
Some  four  years  since  to  quell  these  rebel  Moors 
Should  prove  the  patron  of  this  infidel ! 
The  warranter  of  a  Moresco's  faith  ! 
Now  I  return. 

Alk.  My  Lord,  my  husband's  name 
Is  Isidore.  {Ordonio  starts.) — You  may  remember  it : 
Three  years  ago,  three  years  this  very  week, 
You  left  him  at  Almeria. 

Mon.  Palpably  false  I 

This  very  week,  three  years  ago,  my  lord, 
(You  needs  must  recollect  it  by  your  wound) 
You  were  at  sea,  and  there  engaged  the  pirates, 
The  murderers  doubtless  of  your  brother  Alvar  I — 
What,  is  he  ill,  my  Lord  ?  how  strange  he  looks  I 

Val.  You  pressed  upon  him  too  abruptly,  father. 
The  fate  of  one,  on  whom,  you  know,  he  doted. 

Ord.  0  heavens  I  I  ? — I  doted  ? — 
Yes  I  I  doted  on  him. 

[Ordonio  walks  to  the  end  of  the  stage,  Valdez  foUotcs 

Ter.  I  do  not,  can  not  love  him.     Is  my  heart  hard  ? 
Is  my  heart  hard  ?  that  even  now  the  thought 
Should  force  itself  upon  me  ? — Yet  I  feel  it ! 

Mon.  The  drops  did  start  and  stand  upon  his  forehead  ' 
I  will  return.     In  ver)'  truth,  I  grieve 
To  have  been  the  occasion.  Ho  I  attend  me,  woman  I 

Alh.  {to  Tere^sa.)  O  gentle  lady  I  make  the  father  stay 

REMORSE.  853 

Until  iny  lord  recover.     I  am  sure 

That  he  will  say  he  is  my  husband's  friend. 

Ter,  Stay,  father !  stay  I  my  lord  will  soon  recover : 

Ord.  (as  they  return  to  VcUdez.)  Strange,  that  this  Monviedru 
Should  have  the  power  so  to  distemper  me  ! 

VaL  Nay,  'twas  an  amiable  weakness,  son  ! 

Mon.  My  lord,  I  truly  grieve 

Ord.  Tut !  name  it  not 

A  sudden  seizure,  father  !  think  not  of  it. 
As  to  this  woman's  husband,  I  do  know  him. 
I  know  him  well,  and  that  he  is  a  Christian. 

Mon.  1  hope,  my  lord,  your  merely  human  pity 
Doth  not  prevail 

Ord,  'Tis  certain  that  he  was  a  catholic  ; 
What  changes  may  have  happened  in  three  years* 
I  can  not  say  ;  but  grant  me  this,  good  father : 
Myself  I'll  sifl  him  :  if  I  find  him  sound. 
You'll  grant  me  your  authority  and  name 
To  liberate  his  house. 

Mon.  Your  zeal,  my  lord. 

And  your  late  merits  in  this  holy  warfare 
Woulil  authorize  an  ampler  trust — ^you  have  it. 

Ord.  I  will  attend  you  home  within  an  hour. 

Val.  Meantime  return  with  us,  and  take  refreshment. 

Alh.  Not  till  my  husband's  free  !  I  may  not  do  it. 
I  will  stay  here. 

Ter.  (aside.)  Who  is  this  Isidore  ? 

Val.  Daughter! 

Ter.  With  your  permission,  my  dear  lord, 
I'll  loiter  yet  awhile  t'  enjoy  the  sea  breeze. 

[Exei4?it  Valdez,  Monviedro,  and  Ordonio. 

Alh.  Hah  !  there  he  goes  !  a  bitter  curse  go  with  him, 
A  scathing  curse  ! 
You  hate  him,  don't  you,  lady  ? 

Ter.  Oh  fear  not  me  !  my  heart  is  sad  for  yoa 

Alh.  These  fell  inquisitors !  these  sons  of  blood 
As  I  came  on,  his  face  so  maddened  me. 
That  ever  and  anon  I  clutched  my  dagger 
And  half  unsheathed  it 

Ter.  Be  more  calm,  I  pray  yon. . 

364  RBllOBSS. 

Alh.  And  as  he  walked  along  the  narrow  path 
Close  by  the  mountain's  edge,  my  soul  grew  eager  ; 
'Twas  with  hard  toil  I  made  myself  remember 
That  his  Familiars  held  my  babes  and  husband. 
To  have  leapt  upon  him  with  a  tiger's  plunge, 
And  hurl'd  him  down  the  rugged  precipice, 
0,  it  had  been  most  sweet ! 

Ter,  Hush  !  hush,  for  shame ! 

Where  is  your  woman's  heart  ? 

Alh.  0  gentle  lady ! 

You  have  no  skill  to  guess  my  many  wrongs. 
Many  and  strange !     Besides,  I  am  a  Christian, 
And  Christians  never  pardon — 'tis  their  faith  ! 

Ter.  Shame  fall  on  those  who  so  have  shown  it  to  tbeo  * 

Alh.  I  know  that  man ;  'tis  well  he  knows  not  me. 
Five  years  ago  (and  he  was  the  prime  agent). 
Five  years  ago  the  holy  brethren  seized  me. 

Ter.  What  might  your  crime  be  ? 

Alh.  I  was  a  Moresco  ! 

They  cast  me,  then  a  young  and  nursing  mother, 
Into  a  dungeon  of  their  prison  house  ; 
Where  was  no  bed,  no  fire,  no  ray  of  light. 
No  touch,  no  sound  of  comfort  I  The  black  air. 
It  was  a  toil  to  breathe  it  I  when  the  door, 
Slow  opening  at  the  appointed  hour,  disclosed 
One  human  countenance,  the  lamp's  red  flame 
Cowered  as  it  entered,  and  at  once  sank  down. 
Oh  miserable  I  by  that  lamp  to  see 
My  infant  quarrelling  with  the  coarse  hard  bread 
Brought  daily  :  for  the  little  wretch  was  sickly — 
My  rage  had  dried  away  its  natural  food. 
In  darkness  I  remained — the  dull  bell  counting. 
Which  haply  told  me,  that  the  all-cheering  sun 
Was  rising  on  our  garden.     When  I  dozed. 
My  infants  moanings  mingled  with  my  slumbers. 
And  waked  me. — If  you  were  a  mother,  lady, 
I  should  scarce  dare  to  tell  you,  that  its  noises 
And  peevish  cries  so  fretted  on  my  brain. 
That  I  have  struck  the  innocent  babe  in  anger. 

Ter.  0  Heaven  !  it  is  too  horrible  to  hear. 

RRM0R8E.  865 

Alh,  What  was  it  then  to  sufier  ?  'Tis  laost  right 
^  That  such  as  you  should  hear  it. — Know  you  not, 
What  nature  makes  you  mourn,  she  hids  you  heal  ? 
Great  evils  ask  great  passions  to  redress  them. 
And  whirlwinds  fitliest  scatter  pestilence. 

Ter.  You  were  at  length  released  ? 

Alh.  Yes,  at  length 

I  saw  the  hlessed  arch  of  the  whole  heaven  ! 
'Twas  the  first  time  my  infant  smiled.     No  more — 
For  if  I  dwell  upon  that  moment,  Lady, 
A  trance  comes  on  which  makes  me  o'er  again 
All  I  then  was — my  knees  hang  loose  and  drag, 
And  my  lip  falls  with  such  an  idiot  laugh, 
That  you  would  start  and  shudder  ! 

Ter.  But  your  hushand — 

Alh.  A  month's  imprisonment  would  kill  him,  Lady. 

Ter.  Alas,  poor  man  1 

Alh.  He  hath  a  lion's  courage. 

Fearless  in  act,  but  feeble  in  endurance  ; 
Unfit  for  boisterous  times,  with  gentle  heart 
He  worships  nature  in  the  hill  and  valley, 
Not  knowing  what  he  loves,  but  loves  it  all — 

Enter  Alvar  disguised  as  a  Moresco,  and  in  Moorish  gar* 

Ter.  Know  you  that  stately  Moor  ? 

Alh.  I  know  him  not . 

But  doubt  not  he  is  some  Moresco  chieflain, 
Who  hides  himself  among  the  Alpnj  arras. 

Ter.  The  Alpujarras  ?  Does  he  know  his  danger, 
So  near  this  seat  ? 

Alh.  He  wears  the  Moorish  robes  too. 

As  in  defiance  of  the  royal  edict. 

[AUmdra  advances  to  Alvar,  tcho  lias  tcalked  to  the  back  oj 
tJie  stagey  near  the  rocks.     Teresa  drops  her  veil 

Alh.  Gallant  Moresco  !  An  inquisitor, 
Monviedro,  of  known  hatred  to  our  race — 

Alv*  You  have  mistaken  me.     I  am  a  Christian. 

Alh.  He  deems,  that  we  are  plotting  to  ensnare  him  ; 
)e>peak  to  him.  Lady — none  can  hear  you  speak, 
And  not  believe  you  innocent  of  gaile. 

856  BBHOBSS. 

Ter.  If  aught  enforce  you  to  concealment,  Sir — 

Alh,  He  trembles  strangely. 

[Alvar  sinks  dawrit  and  hides  his  face  in  his  robe. 

Ter.  See,  we  have  disturbed  him. 

[approaches  fiearer  to  kim. 
I  pray  you  think  us  friends — uncowl  your  face, 
For  you  seem  faint,  and  the  night  breeze  blows  healing. 
I  pray  you  think  us  friends  ! 

Alv,  (raisiyig  his  Jiead).  Calm,  very  calm  . 
*Tis  all  too  tranquil  for  reality ! 
And  she  spoke  to  me  with  her  innocent  voice. 
That  voice,  that  innocent  voice  !  She  is  no  traitress  ! 

Ter.  Let  us  retire,  {fiaughtily  to  AlJiadra.) 

Alh.  He  is  indeed  a  Christian. 

Alv.  {aside.)  She  deems  me  dead,  yet  wears  no  mourning  gar 
raent  I 
Why  should  my  brother's — wife — wear  mourning  garments? 

{To   Teresa.) 
Your  pardon,  noble  dame  !  that  I  disturbed  you : 
1  had  just  started  from  a  frightful  dream. 

Ter.  Dreams  tell  but  of  the  past,  and  yet  'tis  said. 
They  prophesy — 

Alv,  The  Past  lives  o'er  agam 

In  its  effects,  and  to  the  guilty  spirit 
The  ever  frowning  Present  is  its  imaore. 

2Vr.  Traitress  I  {then  aside.) 

What  sudden  spell  overmasters  me  ? 
Why  seeks  he  me,  shunning  the  Moorish  woman  ? 

Alv.  I  dream'd  I  had  a  friend,  on  whom  I  lean'd 
With  blindest  trust,  and  a  betrothed  maid. 
Whom  I  was  wont  to  call  not  mine,  but  me  : 
For  mine  own  self  seem'd  nothing,  lacking  her. 
This  maid  so  idolized,  that  trusted  friend 
Dishonored  in  my  absence,  soul  and  body  I 
Fear,  following  guilt,  tempted  to  blacker  guilt, 
And  murderers  were  suborned  against  my  life. 
But  by  my  looks  and  most  impassioned  words, 
I  roused  the  virtues  that  are  dead  in  no  man, 
Even  in  the  assassins'  hearts  !  they  made  their  terms, 
And  thanked  me  for  redeeming  them  from  murder. 

RBMOBSE.  357 

Alh,  You  are  lost  in  thought :  hear  him  no  more,  sweet  Lady  ! 
Ter.  From  morn  to  night  I  am  myself  a  dreamer, 
And  slight  things  bring  on  me  the  idle  mood  ! 
AVell,  Sir,  what  happened  then  ? 

Alv.  On  a  rude  rock, 

A  rock,  methought,  fast  by  a  grove  of  firs, 
Whose  thready  leares  to  the  low-breathing  gale 
Made  a  soft  sound  most  like  the  distant  ocean, 
I  stayed,  as  though  the  hour  of  death  were  passed. 
And  I  were  sitting  in  the  world  of  spirits — 
For  all  things  seemed  unreal !  there  I  sate — 
The  dews  fell  clammy,  and  the  night  descended, 
Black,  sultry,  close  !  and  ere  the  midnight  hour 
A  storm  came  on,  mingling  all  sounds  of  fear, 
That  woods,  and  sky,  and  mountains,  seemed  one  havoo. 
The  second  Rash  of  lightning  showed  a  tree 
Hard  by  me,  newly  scathed.     I  rose  tumultuous  : 
My  soul  worked  high,  I  bared  my  head  to  the  storm, 
And  with  loud  voice  and  clamorous  agony, 
Kneeling  I  prayed  to  the  great  Spirit  that  made  me, 
Prayed,  that  Remorse  might  fasten  on  their  hearts, 
And  cling  with  poisonous  tooth,  inextricable 
As  the  gored's  lion's  bite  ! 

Ter.  A  fearful  curse  I 

Alh,  But  d'ream'd  you  not  that  you  returned  and  killed  them  '^ 
Dream' d  you  of  no  revenge  ? 

Alv.  She  would  have  died. 

Died  in  her  guilt — perchance  by  her  own  hands  I 
And  bending  o'er  her  self-inflicted  wounds, 
I  might  have  met  the  evil  glance  of  frenzy. 
And  leapt  myself  into  an  unblest  grave  ! 
I  prayed  for  the  punishment  that  cleanses  hearts  ; 
For  still  I  loved  her  I 

Alh,  And  you  dream'd  all  this  ? 

Ter,  My  soul  is  full  of  visions  all  as  wild  ! 

Alh.  There  is  no  room  in  this  heart  for  puling  love  tales. 

Ter,  (lifts  up  her  veil  aiid  advances  to  Alvar,)    Stranger, 
farewell ;  I  guess  not  who  you  are, 
Nor  why  you  so  addressed  your  tale  to  roe. 
Your  mien  is  noble,  and,  I  own,  perplexed  me 

^^^^^^^■r  ahu  you  aecd  strengtli  to  drag  ihom  into 
^^^^^^K  ^e  generous  Valdez,  and  my  Lord  Ordra 
^^^^^^^V  If  ive  arm  and  will  to  aid  a  noble  sufierei 

^^^^^    Nor  eliail  von  xvanl  iiiv  Tavurable  i)l..M(iiii. 

^H  AIv.  {alone.)  'Tisstraugel     Ii  can  not 

^^  Her  Lord  Ordonio  !     Nay,  I  will  not  do  it 

^H  I  nirsad  liim  once — and  one  curse  is  eooug 

^H  How  sad  ahc  looked,  and  pale  !  but  not  Lk 

^H  And  her  calm  tones — sweet  as  a  song  of  n 

^H  If  the  bad  spirit  letain'd  bis  augel's  voice, 

H  Hell  scarce  were  Heli.      And  why  uot  inno. 

^1  Who  meant  to  murder  me,  might  well  chea 

^1  But  eru  site  married  him,  he  had  stained  h« 

^P  Ah  I  there  1  am  hampered.     What  if  this  - 

H  Framed  by  the  assassin  ?     Wiio  should  lell 

I  If  it  were  truth  ?     Ordonio  would  not  lell  h 

I  Yet  why  one  lie  ?   all  el&e,  I  know,  was  tiut 

II  No  start,  uo  jealousy  of  stirring  conscience  ! 
H  And  she  refened  to  me — fondly,  methoughtl 
I  Uould  she  walk  here  if  she  had  been  a  iraiti 
ft  Here,  where  we  playtd  together  in  our  child 
H  llere,  where  we  plighted  vows  ?  where  her  < 
I  Rectfived  my  last  kiss,  when  with  stippresged 
P  She  hail  r«!n.-i  ; '     - 

KEMOBSE.  869 


Scene  I. — A  unld  and  mountainous  Country.  Grdonio  and 
Isidore  are  discovered,  supposed  at  a  little  distance  from  Isi" 
dore's  liouse. 

Ord.  Here  we  may  stop  :  your  house  distinct  in  view, 
Yet  we  secured  from  listeners. 

hid.  Now  indeed 

My  house  !  and  it  looks  cheerful  as  the  clusters 
Basking  in  sunshine  on  yon  vine-clad  rock, 
That  overbrows  it !     Patron  !  Friend !  Preserver  I 
Thrice  have  you  saved  my  life.     Once  in  the  battle 
You  gave  it  me  :  next  rescued  me  from  suicide  : 
\Vhen  for  my  follies  I  was  made  to  wander, 
With  mouths  to  feed,  and  not  a  morsel  for  them  : 
Now,  but  for  you,  a  dungeon's  slimy  stones 
Had  hecn  my  bed  and  pillow. 

Ord.  Good  Isidore  ! 

^yhy  this  to  me  !     It  is  enough,  you  know  it. 

Isid.  A  common  trick  of  gratitude,  my  lord, 
Seeking  to  ease  her  own  full  heart 

Ord.  Enough ! 

A  debt  repaid  ceases  to  be  a  debt. 
You  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve  me  greatly. 

Isid.  And  how,  my  lord  9     I  pray  you  to  name  the  thing. 
I  would  climb  up  an  ice-glazed  precipice 
To  pluck 'a  weed  you  fancied  I 

Ord.  Why— that— Lady— 

Isid.  'Tis  now  three  years,  my  lord,  since  last  I  saw  you  : 
Have  you  a  son,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  '  0  miserable —  [aside 

Isidore !  you  are  a  man,  and  know  mankind. 
I  told  you  what  I  wished — now  for  the  truth — 
She  loved  the  man  you  kill'd. 

Isid.  You  jest,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  And  till  his  death  is  proved  she  will  not  wed  me. 

Isid.  You  sport  with  me,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  Come,  come  !  this  foolery 

Lives  only  in  thy  looks,  thy  heart  disowns  it ! 

860  REMORSE. 

Isid.  I  can  bear  this,  and  any  thing  more  grievoas 
From  you,  my  lord — but  how  can  I  serve  you  here  ? 

Ord.  Why,  you  can  utter  with  a  solemn  gesture 
Oracular  sentences  of  deep  no-meaning, 
Wear  a  quaint  garment,  make  mysterious  antics — 

Jsid.  I  am  dull,  my  lord !  I  do  not  comprehend  yoo. 

Ord.  In  blunt  terms,  you  can  play  the  sorcerer. 
She  hath  no  faith  in  Holy  Church,  'tis  true  ; 
Her  lover  schooled  her  in  some  newer  nonsense  ; 
Yet  still  a  tale  of  spirits  works  upon  her. 
She  is  a  lone  enthusiast,  sensitive. 
Shivers,  and  can  not  keep  the  tears  in  her  eye  : 
And  such  do  love  the  marvellous  too  well 
Not  to  believe  it.     We  will  wind  up  her  fancy 
With  a  strange  music,  that  she  knows  not  of — 
With  fumes  of  frankincense,  and  mummery, 
Then  leave,  as  one  sure  token  of  his  death, 
That  portrait,  which  from  off  the  dead  man's  neck 
I  bade  thee  take,  the  trophy  of  thy  conquest. 

Jsid.  Will  that  be  a  sure  sign  ? 

Ord.  Beyond  suspicion. 

Fondly  caressing  him,  her  favor'd  lover, 
(By  some  base  spell  he  had  bewitched  her  senses) 
She  whispered  such  dark  fears  of  me  forsooth, 
As  made  this  heart  pour  gall  into  my  veins. 
And  as  she  coyly  bound  it  round  his  neck 
She  made  him  promise  silence  ;  and  now  holds 
The  secret  of  the  existence  of  this  portrait  I 

Known  only  to  her  lover  and  herself. 
But  I  had  traced  her,  stolen  unnotic'd  on  them, 
And  unsuspected  saw  and  heard  the  whole. 

Isid.  But  now  I  should  have  cursed  the  man  who  told  me 
You  could  ask  aught,  my  lord,  and  I  refuse — 
But  this  I  can  not  do. 

Ord.  Where  lies  your  scruple  ? 

Isid.  Why — why,  my  lord  I 
You  know  you  told  me  that  the  lady  lov'd  you, 
Had  loved  you  with  incautious  tenderness  ; 
That  if  the  young  man,  her  betrothed  husband, 
Betumed,  yourself,  and  she,  and  the  honor  of  both 

Must  perJBh.    Now  tboagh  with  no  tenderer  acniplea 
Than  Ihote  which  being  native  to  the  heart, 
Than  those,  rov  lord,  which  merely  being  a  man — 

Ord.  Thia  fellnw  is  a  man— he  killed  for  hire 
One  whom  he  knew  not,  yet  has  tender  scmples '. 

[  Then  turning  to  Intlom- 
These  doubts,  these  fears,  thy  whine,  thy  stammering — 
Pi»li,  fool !  thou  blimd'reit  through  the  book  of  guilt, 
Spelling  thy  vilUiiy. 

hill.  My  lord — my  lord, 

1  can  bear  much — yes,  very  much  from  you ! 
But  there's  a  point  where  suSeranco  is  meanness ; 
1  am  no  villain — never  kill'd  lor  hire — 
My  gratitude — 

Ord.  0  aye — your  gratitude  I 

'Twas  a  well-sounding  word — what  have  you  done  with  it  ? 

hid.  Who  proifers  his  pwt  favors  for  niy  virtue — 

Old.  Virtue 

liid.  Tries  to  o'erreuch  mo — is  a  very  sharper, 
And  should  not  speak  of  gratitude,  my  lord. 
I  knew  not  'twas  your  brother ! 

Ord.  And  who  told  you  ? 

Md.  He  himself  told  me. 

Ord.  Ha  1  you  talk'd  willi  him  ! 

And  those,  the  two  Morescoes  who  were  with  you  ? 

liid.  Both  fell  in  a  night  brawl  at  Malaga. 

Ord.  {in  a  law  voice.)  My  brother— 

liid.  Yes,  my  lord,  I  could  not  tell  you  ! 
J  thrust  away  the  thought — it  drove  me  wild. 
But  listen  to  me  now — I  pray  you  listen 

Ord.  Villain  !  no  more.     I'll  hear  no  more  of  it. 

Isid.  My  lord,  it  much  imports  your  future  safety 
That  yon  should  hear  it 

Ord.  {turning  off  from  Isidore.)     Am  not  1  a  man  ! 
Tis  as  it  should  be  !  tut — the  deed  ilscll" 
VVus  idle,  and  these  aller-pangs  still  idler! 

Isid.  Wo  met  him  in  the  very  place  you  mentioned. 
Hard  by  B  grove  of  firs — 

Ord.  Enough — enough— 

vol..  vn  Q 

He  said,  ^^Tmt  nieau  you,  friends 
I  luve  a  brolher  and  a  pronuaed 
Who  make  life  dear  to  mo — and  i 

That  brollier  will  roum  oarlli  :in(i 
Thi-n;  was  a  liktiio;*  in  Ins  \m-^  1 
1  asked  his  brothec's  iianii:  :   lie  e; 
Hon  of  Lord  Vuldez  I  1  had  well  i 
At  length  I  said  (if  thot  indc«d  I 
And  that  no  spirit  made  my  longt 
Tliat  woman  is  diahonoted  by  Iha 
And  he  the  man  who  sent  ns  1o  d< 
He  drove  a  thrust  at  me  in  mge. 
He  wore  her  portrait  round  liia  ncc 
Am  he  had  been  made  of  the  rook  t: 
Aye,  juBt  as  you  look  now — only  le 
At  length  recovering  from  his  tranc 
His  sword  away,  and  bade  us  take 
It  was  not  worth:  his  keeping. 

Ord.  An. 

Oh  hlood-hounds  !  may  eternal  wra 
He  was  bis  Makcr'a  image  undefac 
It  ceizcs  me — by  Hell  I  will  go  on  1 
What — would'Ht  thou  stop,  tnan  ?  ll 
Oh  cold— cold— cold  :  shot  thrjiich 

KEMORSH..  863 

Or  the  blind  elements  stirred  up  within  me  ? 

If  good  were  meant,  why  were  we  made  these  beings  ? 

And  if  not  meant — 

Isid.  You  are  disturbed,  my  lord  ! 

Ord.  (starts.)  A  gust  of  the  soul !  i'faith  it  overset  me. 

0  'twas  all  folly — all !  idle  as  laughter ! 
Now,  Isidore  !  I  swear  that  thou  shalt  aid  me. 

Jsid.  (in  a  loio  voice.)  I'll  perish  first!  / 

Ord.  What  dost  thou  mutter  of  ? 

Isid.  Some  of  your  servants  know  me,  I  am  certain. 

Ord.  There's  some  sense  in  that  scruple  ;  but  we'll  mask  yoit 

Isid.  They'll  know  my  gait :  but  stay !  last  night  1  watched 
A  stranger  near  the  ruin  in  the  wood, 
Who  as  it  seemed  was  gathering  herbs  and  wild  ilowerb. 

1  had  followed  him  at  distance,  seen  him  scale 
Its  western  wall,  and  by  an  easier  entrance 
Stole  aAer  him  unnoticed.     There  I  marked, 
That  mid  the  chequer  work  of  light  and  shade 
With  curious  choice  he  plucked  no  other  flowers. 
But  those  on  which  the  moonlight  fell  :  and  once 

I  heard  him  muttering  o'er  the  plant.     A  wizard — 
Some  gaunt  slave  prowling  here  for  dark  employment. 

Ord.  Doubtless  you  question'd  him  ? 

Isid.  'Twas  my  intention, 

Having  first  traced  him  homeward  to  his  haunt. 
But  lo !  the  stern  Dominican,  whose  spies 
Lurk  everywhere,  already  (as  it  seemed) 
Had  given  commission  to  his  apt  familiar 
To  seek  and  sound  the  Moor ;  who  now  returning. 
Was  by  this  trusty  agent  stopped  midway. 
I,  dreading  fresh  suspicion  if  found  near  him 
In  that  lone  place,  again  concealed  myself ; 
Yet  within  hearing.     So  the  Moor  was  question'd, 
And  in  your  name,  as  lord  of  this  domain. 
P»  udly  ho  answered,  *•  Say  to  the  Lord  Ordonio, 
Ko  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again  !" 

Ord.  A  strange  reply ! 

Isid.  Aye,  all  of  him  is  stranga 

He  called  himself  a  Christian,  yet  he  wears 
The  Moorish  robes,  as  if  he  courted  death. 

864  REMORSE. 

Ord.  Where  does  this  wizard  live  ? 

Isid.  (pointing  to  the  distance.)     You  eee  that  brooklet  ? 
Trace  its  course  backward  :  thro*  a  narrow  opening 
It  leads  you  to  the  place. 

Ord.  How  shall  I  know  it  ? 

Isid.  You  can  i.ot  err.     It  is  a  small  green  dell 
Built  all  around  with  high  ofi-sloping  hills, 
And  from  its  shape  our  peasants  aptly  call  it 
Tlic  Giant's  Cradle.     There's  a  lake  in  the  midst. 
And  round  its  banks  tall  wood  that  branches  over. 
And  makes  a  kind  of  faery  forest  grow 
Down  in  the  water.     At  the  further  end 
A  puny  cataract  falls  on  the  lake ; 
And  there,  a  curious  sight !  you  see  its  shadow 
Forever  curling,  like  a  wreath  of  smoke, 
Up  through  the  foliage  of  those  faery  trees. 
His  cot  stands  opposite.     You  can  not  miss  it. 

Ord.  (in  retiri?ig  stops  suddenly  at  the  edgeof  tlie  scene,  *nia 
then  turning  round  to  Isidore.)  Ha  ! — who  lurks  there  I 
Have  we  been  overheard  ? 
There  where  the  smooth  high  wall  of  slate-rock  glitters 

Isid.  'Neath  those  tall  stones,  which  propping  each  the  othei. 
Form  a  mock  portal  with  their  pointed  arch  ? 
Pardon  my  smiles  I     'Tis  a  poor  idiot  boy. 
Who  sits  in  the  sun,  and  twirls  a  bough  about, 
His  weak  eves  seethd  in  most  unmeaning  tears. 
And  so  he  sits,  swaying  his  cone-like  head. 
And,  staring  at  his  bough  from  morn  to  sunset, 
See-saws  his  voice  in  inarticulate  noises. 

Ord.   'Tis  well  I  and  now  for  this  same  wizard  s  lair. 

Isid.  Some  three  strides  up  the  hill,  a  mountain-ash 
Stretches  its  lower  boughs  and  scarlet  clusters 
O'er  the  old  thatch. 

0*d.  I  shall  not  fail  to  find  it. 

[Exeunt  Ordonio  and  Isidore. 

REMORSE.  865 

Scene  II — Tlie  inside  of  a  Cottuge,  around  which  Jlotcers  and 

plants  of  various  kinds  are  se4:n. 

Discovers  Alvar,  Zulimez  and  Alliadra,  cl8  on  tJie  point  of 


Alh.  {addressi?ig  Alvar.)  Farewell  then!  and  though  manj 
thoughts  perplex  me, 
Aught  evil  or  ignoble  never  can  I 
Suspect  of  thee  I     If  what  thou  seem'st  thou  art, 
The  oppressed  brethren  of  thy  blood  have  need 
or  such  a  leader. 

Alv.  Nobly  minded  woman  ! 

Long  time  against  oppression  have  I  fought, 
And  for  the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled  and  suflered  bonds.     Of  this  be  certain  : 
Time,  as  he  courses  onward,  still  unrolls 
The  volume  of  concealment.     In  the  future, 
As  in  the  optician's  glassy  cylinder, 
The  indistinguishable  blots  and  colors 
Of  the  dim  past  collect  and  shape  themselves 
Upstarting  in  their  own  completed  image 
To  scare  or  to  reward. 

I  sought  the  guilty, 
And  what  I  sought  I  found  :  but  ere  the  spear 
Flew  from  my  hand,  there  rose  an  angel  form 
Betwixt  me  and  my  aim.     With  baffled  purpose 
To  the  Avenger  I  leave  vengeance,  and  depart ! 

Whate'er  betide,  if  aught  my  arm  may  aid, 

Or  power  protect,  my  word  is  ple<lged  to  thee  . 

For  many  are  thy  wrongs,  and  thy  soul  noble. 

Once  more,  farewell.  [Exit  Alhadra, 

Yes,  to  the  Belgic  states 
\Ve  will  return.     These  robes,  this  stained  complexion, 
Akin  to  falsehood,  weigh  upon  my  spirit. 
Wliate'er  befall  us,  the  heroic  Maurice 
Will  grant  us  an  asylum,  in  remembrance 
Of  our  past  services. 

Zul.  And  all  the  wealth,  power,  influence  which  is  yours, 
You  let  a  murderer  hold  ? 

866  REMORSE. 

Alv.  0  faithful  Zulimex  ' 

That  my  return  involved  Ordonio's  death, 
I  trust,  would  give  me  an  unmingled  pang, 
Yet  hearable  : — but  when  1  see  my  father 
Strewing  his  scant  gray  hairs,  e*en  on  the  ground, 
Which  soon  must  be  his  grave,  and  my  Teresa — 
Her  husband  proved  a  murderer,  and  her  infants — 
His  infants — poor  Teresa  ! — all  would  perish, 
All  perish — all  ;  and  I  (nay  bear  with  me) 
Could  not  survive  the  complicated  ruin  ! 

Zul.  Nay  now  I  I  have  distress'd  you — you  well  know, 
I  ne'er  will  quit  your  fortunes.     True,  'tis  tiresome  : 
You  are  a  painter,  one  of  many  fancies  I 
You  can  call  up  past  deeds,  and  make  them  live 
On  the  blank  canvas  !  and  each  little  herb, 
That  grows  on  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest 

You  have  learnt  to  name 

Hark  !  heard  you  not  some  footsteps  ? 

Alv.  AVhat  if  it  were  my  brother  coming  onwards  ? 
T  sent  a  most  mysterious  message  to  him. 

Enter  Ordonio. 
Alv.  It  is  he  I 

Ord.  {to  him:>clf  as  he  enters.)  If  I  distinguished  right  her 
gait  and  stature, 
It  was  the  Moorish  woman,  Isidore's  wife, 
That  passed  me  as  I  entered.     A  lit  taper. 
In  the  night  air,  doth  not  more  naturally 
Attract  the  night  flies  round  it,  than  a  conjurer 
Draws  round  him  the  whole  female  neighborhood. 

[Addressing  Alvar. 
You  know  my  name,  I  guess,  if  not  my  person. 
I  am  Ordonio,  son  of  the  Lord  Valdez. 
Alv.  The  son  of  Valdez  I 

{Ordonio  walks  leisurely  round  the  room,  and  looks  at- 
tentively  at  the  2)la?Us, 
Zul.  (to  Alvar.)  \{\\\\  what  ails  you  now  ? 
How  your  hand  trembles  !  Alvar,  speak  !  what  wish  you  ? 
Alv.  To  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep  forgiveness  ! 
Ord.  (returning  and  aloud.)  Plucked  in  the  moonlight  from 
a  ruin'd  abbey — 

KEMOKSK.  867 

Tho«e  only,  which  the  pale  rays  visited  I 

0  the  iiniDtcUigible  power  of  weeds. 

When  a  few  odd  prayers  have  been  muttered  o'er  them  : 

Then  they  work  miracles  I  I  warrant  you. 

There's  not  a  leaf,  but  underneath  it  lurks 

Some  serviceable  imp. 

There's  one  of  you 
Ifath  sent  me  a  strange  message. 

Alv.  I  am  he. 

Ord.  With  you,  then,  I  am  to  speak  : 

(Haughtily  leaving  his  hfuul  to  Znlimez.) 
A.nd  mark  you,  alono.  {Exit  Zulimez. 

'  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again  I'* — 
>iich  was  your  message,  Sir  !  You  are  no  dullard, 
But  one  that  strips  the  outward  rind  of  things  ! 

Ah.  Tis  fabled  there  are  fruits  with  tempting  rinds, 
That  are  all  dust  and  rottenness  within. 
Wonld'st  thou  I  should  strip  such  ? 

Ord.  Thou  quibbling  fool. 

What  dost  thou  mean  ?     Think'st  thou  I  journeyed  hither 
To  sport  with  thee  ? 

All'.  0  uo,  my  lord !  to  sport 

Best  suits  the  gayety  of  innocence. 

Ord.  (aside.)  0  what  a  thing  is  man  !  the  wisest- heart 
A  fool  I  a  fool  that  laughs  at  its  own  folly, 
Yet  styll  a  fool  I  [Looks  round  tlie  cottage. 

Yo\i  are  poor  I 

Alv,  What  follows  thence  ? 

That  you  would  fain  be  richer 
The  Inquisition  too — You  comprehend  me  ? 
You  are  poor,  in  peril.     I  have  wealth  and  power, 
Can  quench  the  flames,  and  cure  your  poverty  ; 
And  for  the  boon  I  ask  of  you  but  this. 
That  you  should  serve  me — once — for  a  few  hours. 

Alv.  Thou  art  the  son  of  Yaldez  !  would  to  Heaven 
That  I  could  truly  and  forever  serve  thee. 

Ord.  The  slave  begins  to  soften.  [aside 

You  are  my  friend, 
'*  Uo  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again  ;" 
Nay,  no  defence  to  me  !  The  holy  brethren 

868  REMOfiSS. 

Believe  these  calumnies — ^I  know  thee  better. 
Thou  art  a  man,  and  as  a  man  I'll  trust  thee  ! 

Alv.  (aside.)  Alas !  this  hollow  mirth — ^Declare  yoar 

Ord.  I  love  a  lady,  and  she  would  love  me 
But  for  an  idle  and  fantastic  scruple. 
Have  you  no  servants  here,  no  listeners  ? 

[Ordonio  steps  fo  the  door 

Alv.  What,  faithless  too  ?  False  to  his  angel  wife  ? 
To  such  a  wife  ?  Well  might'st  thou  look  so  wan. 

Ill-starr'd  Teresa  ! ^Wretch !  my  seller  soul 

Is  passed  away,  and  I  will  probe  his  conscience  ! 

Ord.  In  truth  this  lady  lov'd  another  man, 
But  he  has  perish'd. 

Alv.  What :  you  kilFd  him  ?  hey  ? 

Ord.  I'll  dash  thee  to  the  earth,  if  thou  but  think'st  it ! 
Insolent  slave  I  how  dar'dst  thou — 

[tur?is  abruptly  from  Alvar,  and  then  to  himself. 

Why !  what's  this  ? 
Twas  idiocy  I  I'll  tie  myself  to  an  aspen, 
And  wear  a  luols  cap — 

Alv.  Fare  thee  well — 
I  pity  thee,  Ordonio,  even  to  anguish. 

[Alvar  is  retiring. 

Ord.  Ho  I  [calling  to  Alvar. 

Alv.  Be  brief,  what  wish  you  ? 

Ord.  You  are  deep  at  bartering — You  charge  yourself 
At  a  round  sum.     Come,  come,  1  spake  unwisely. 

Alv.  1  listen  to  you. 

Ord.  In  a  sudden  tempest. 

Did  Alvar  perish — he,  1  mean — the  lover — 
The  fellow 

Alv.  Nay,  speak  out !  'twill  ease  your  heart 
To  call  him  villain  I — ^AVhy  stand'st  thou  aghast  ? 
Men  think  it  natural  to  hate  their  rivals. 

Ord.  Now,  till  she  knows  him  dead,  she  will  not  wed  me. 

Alv.  Are  vou  not  wedded,  then  ?  Merciful  Heaven  * 
Not  wedded  to  Teresa  ? 

Ord.  Why,  what  ails  thee  ? 

What,  art  thou  mad  ?  why  look'st  thou  upward  so  ? 
Dost  pray  to  Lucifer,  Prince  of  the  Air  ^ 


All".  Proceed,  I  shall  be  silent. 

Orel.  To  Teresa  ? 

Politic  wizard  !  ere  you  sent  that  message, 
You  had  conn'd  your  lesson,  made  yourself*  proficient 
In  all  my  fortunes.     Hah  !  you  prophesied 
A  p:oldcn  crop  !  Well,  you  have  not  mistaken — 
Be  faithful  to  me,  and  TH  pay  thee  nobly. 

Alv.  Well !  and  this  lady  ! 

Ord.  If  we  could  make  her  certain  of  his  death, 
^>he  needs  must  wed  me.     Ere  her  lover  left  her, 
She  tied  a  little  portrait  round  his  neck, 
Entreating  him  to  wear  it. 

A/v.  Yes  I  he  did  so  I 

Ord.  Why  no  :  he  was  afraid  of  accidents. 
Of  robberies,  and  shipwrecks,  and  the  like. 
In  secrecy  he  gave  it  me  to  keep. 
Till  his  return. 

Air.  What !  he  was  your  friend  then  ! 

Ord.  I  was  his  friend. — 

Now  that  he  gave  it  me. 
This  lady  knows  not.     You  are  a  mighty  wizard — 
Can  call  the  dead  man  up — he  will  not  come — 
He  is  in  heaven  then — there  you  have  no  influence, 
Still  there  are  tokens — and  your  imps  may  bring  yon 
Something  he  wore  about  him  when  he  died.  ^ 

And  when  the  smoke  of  the  incense  on  the  altar 
Is  pass'd,  your  spirits  will  have  left  this  picture. 
What  say  you  now  ? 

Alv.  Ordonio,  I  will  do  it. 

Ord.  We'll  hazard  no  delay.     Bo  it  to-night, 
In  the  early  evening.     Ask  for  the  Lord  Valdez. 
I  will  prepare  him.     Music  too.  and  incense, 
(For  I  have  arranged  it — music,  altar,  incense) 
All  shall  be  ready.     Here  is  this  same  picture. 
And  here,  what  you  will  value  more,  a  purse. 
Come  early  for  your  magic  ceremonies. 

Alv.  I  will  not  fail  to  meet  you. 

Ord.  Till  next  we  meet,  farewell ! 

[Exit  Ordonio. 

870  REMOBSS. 

•    {Ale.  (alone,  indignantly Jiings  the  purse  away,  and  tfuza 

passionately  at  the  portrait.) 
And  I  did  curse  thee  ! 
At  midnight !  on  my  knees  !  and  I  helieved 
Thee  perjured,  tliee  a  traitress  I     Thee  dishonor'd  ' 

0  blind  and  rredulous  foo^!     0  guilt  of  folly ' 
Should  not  thy  inarticulate  fondnesses, 

Thy  infant  loves — should  not  thy  maiden  vows 

Have  come  upon  my  heart  ?     And  this  sweet  image 

Tied  round  my  neck  with  many  a  chaste  endearment, 

And  thrilling  hands,  that  made  me  weep  and  tremble — 

Ah,  coward  dupe !  to  yield  it  to  the  miscreant, 

Who  spake  pollution  of  thee !  barter  for  life 

This  farewell  pledge,  which  with  impassioned  vow 

1  had  sworn  that  I  would  grasp — ev'n  in  my  death-pang ! 

I  am  unworthy  of  thy  love,  Teresa, 

Of  that  unearthly  smile  upon  those  lips, 

Which  ever  smiled  on  inc  I     Yet  do  not  scorn  me — 

I  lisp'd  thy  name,  ere  I  had  learnt  my  mother's. 

Dear  portrait  I  rescued  from  a  traitor's  keeping, 
1  will  not  now  profane  thee,  holy  image. 
To  a  dark  trick.     That  worst  bad  man  shall  find 
A  picture,  whicth  will  wake  the  hell  within  him, 
And  rouse  a  fiery  whirlwind  in  his  conscience. 


Scene  I. — A  Hall  of  armory,  tcitli  an  altar  at  tlie  back  of  tlu 
stage.     Soft  inusic  from  an  instrument  of  glass  or  ste^. 

Valdez,  Ordotio,  and  Alvar  in  a  Sorcerer's  robe,  are  discovered. 

Old.  This  was  too  melancholy,  father. 

Val.  Nav, 

My  Alvar  lov'd  sad  music  from  a  child. 
Once  he  was  lost ;  and  after  weary  search 
W^e  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood, 
To  which  spot  he  had  followed  a  blind  boy, 
Wlio  breath'd  into  a  pipe  of  sycamore 

REMORS£.  Z'l  J 

iSome  strangely  moving  notes  :  and  these,  he  said, 
Were  taught  him  in  a  dream.     Him  we  first  saw 
Strctch'd  oil  the  broad  top  of  a  sunny  heath-baiik 
And  lower  down  poor  Alvar,  fast  asleep, 
His  head  upon  the  blind  boy's  dog.     It  pleas'd  mo 
To  mark  how  he  had  fastened  round  the  pipe 
A  silver  toy  his  graudam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I  see  him  now  as  he  then  look*d — 
liven  so  ! — He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress, 
Ye/fetill  he  wore  it. 

Alv.  (aside.)         My  tears  must  not  flow  I 
I  must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry.  My  father  ! 

Enter  Teresa  and  Attendants. 

Ter.  Lord  Valdez,  you  have  asked  my  presence 
And  I  submit ;  but  (Heaven  bear  for  me) 
My  heart  approves  it  not !  'tis  mockery. 

Ord.  Believe  you  then  no  preternatural  influence  ? 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us  ? 

Ter.  Say  rather  that  1  have  imagined  it 
A  possible  thing  !  and  it  has  sooth'd  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have  ;  but  ne'er  seduced  me 
To  traffic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope, 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 
{To  Alv.)  Stranger,  I  mourn  and  blush  to  .see  you  here, 
On  such  employment !     With  far  other  thoughts 
I  left  you. 

Ord,  (aside.)  Ha  I  he  has  been  tampering  with  her  ? 

Alu.  0  high-soul'd  maiden !  and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  stranger's  name  ! — 

I  swear  to  thee 
I  will  uncover  all  concealed  guilt. 
Doubt,  but  decide  not !     Stand  ye  from  the  alt  at 

[Here  a  strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  the  scene 

Alv.  With  no  irreverent  voice  or  uncouth  charm, 
1  call  up  the  departed  ! 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 
Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell ; — 
So  may  the  gates  of  Paradise,  unbarr'd, 
Cease  thy  swift  toils  !     Since  haply  thou  art  ono 
Of  that  innumerable  company 

872  ABMOBSK. 

Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainboWa 

Girdle  this  round  eaith  in  a  dizzy  motion. 

With  noise  too  vast  and  constant  to  be  heard ; — 

Fitliest  unheard  !     For  oh,  ye  numberless. 

And  rapid  travellers  !  what  ear  unstunn'd. 

What  sense  uuinadden'd,  might  bear  up  against 

The  rushing  of  your  congregated  wings?  [itfaatV- 

Kven  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o*er  ray  head ! 

f  e,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desert  sands, 

That  roar  and  whiten,  like  a  burst  of  waters, 

A  sweet  appearance,  but  a  dread  illusion 

To  the  parch'd  caravan  that  roams  by  night ! 

And  ye  upbuild  on  the  becalmed  waves 

That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  earth  to  heaven 

Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness  !     Ye  too  split 

The  ice  mount !  and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 

Tempest  the  new-thaw*d  sea,  whose  sudden  gulfs 

Suck  in,  perchance,  some  Lapland  wizard's  skiffl 

Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool's  marge  ye  dance, 

Till  from  the  blue  swolii  corse  the  soul  toils  out. 

And  joins  your  mighty  army. 

[Here,  behind  the  aceftes,  a  voice  sings  tlu  three  tcordt, 
"  J  fear,  sweet  spirit.'' 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 
Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  charm  I 
By  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 
Of  a  half  dead,  yet  still  undying  hope, 
Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense  ! 
So  shall  the  Church's  cleansing  rites  be  thine. 
Her  knells  and  masses  that  redeem  the  dead  ! 

SoNO. — Behind  the  Scenes,  accomjxinicd  by  the  ^me  Instra 

mcnt  as  before. 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell. 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel  I 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep  long-lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 
In  a  chapel  on  the  shore, 

KKMORSE.  873 

Shall  the  chanter,  sad  and  saintly, 
Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 
Doleful  masses  chant  for  thee, 
Miserere  Domine  ! 

Hark  !  the  cadence  dies  away 

On  the  quiet  moonlight  sea  : 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 

Miserere  Domine  !  [A  Ung  pause 

Ord.  The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell  I 
My  brother  is  in  heaven.     Thou  sainted  spirit, 
Burst  on  our  sight,  a  passing  visitant  I 
Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  sec  thee, 

0  'twere  a  joy  to  me  I 

Alv.  A  joy  to  thee  I 

AVhat  if  thou  heard'st  him  now  ?     What  if  his  spirit 
Re-enter*d  its  cold  corse,  and  came  u()on  thee 
With  many  a  stab  from  many  a  murderer's  pionard  ? 
What  (if  his  steadfast  eye  still  beaming  pity 
And  brother^s  love)  he  turn'd  his  head  aside, 
licst  he  should  look  at  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  penitence  ? 

VaL  These  are  unholy  fancies  I 

Ord.  Yes,  my  father. 

He  i.s  in  Heaven ! 

Alv,  {still  to  Ordonio.)  But  what  if  he  had  a  brother, 
Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour. 
The  name  of  Heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face, 
More  than  the  death-pang ! 

Val.  Idly  prating  man  ! 

Thou  hast  guess'd  ill  :  Don  Alvar's  only  brother 
Stands  here  before  thee — a  father's  blessing  on  him  ! 

1  [e  is  most  virtuous. 

Alv.  (still  to  Ordonio,)  What,  if  his  very  virtues 
Had  pampered  his  swoln  heart  and  made  him  proud  ! 
And  what  if  pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt  ? 
Yet  still  he  stalked  a  self-created  god, 
Not  very  bold,  but  exquisitely  cunning ; 
And  one  that  at  his  mother'^  looking-gli 


Would  foice  his  features  to  a  frowning  sternness  ? 

Young  Lord  !  I  tell  thee,  that  there  are  such  beings^ 

Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  damn'd« 

To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  loathe  mankind, 

At  every  stir  and  buzz  of  coward  conscience, 

Trick,  cant,  and  lie,  most  whining  hypocrites  ! 

Away,  awny  !     Now  let  me  hear  more  music.         [music  again 

Ter.  'Tis  strange,  I  tremble  at  my  own  conjectures  ! 
But  whatsoe'er  it  mean,  I  dare  no  longer 
Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysl^ies, 
This  dark  provoking  of  the  hidden  Powers  I 
Already  I  afiront — if  not  high  Heaven — 
Yet  Alvar's  memory  I — Hark  I  I  make  appeal 
Against  the  unholy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 
To  bend  before  a  lawful  shrine,  and  seek 
That  voice  which  whispers,  when  the  still  heart  listens. 
Comfort  and  faithful  hope  I     Let  us  retire. 

Alv.  {to  Teresa.)  0  full  of  faith  and  guileless  love,  thy  spint 
Still  prompts  thee  wisely.     Let  the  pangs  of  guilt 
Surprise  the  guilty  :  thou  art  innocent  I 

{Exeunt  Teresa  and  Attendayit.     Music  as  before. 
The  spell  is  mutter'd — Come,  thou  wandering  shape, 
Who  ovvn'st  no  master  in  a  human  eye, 
Whate'er  be  this  man's  doom,  fair  be  it,  or  foul. 
If  he  be  dead,  0  come  I  and  bring  with  thee 
That  which  he  prasp'd  in  death  I     But  if  he  live. 
Some  token  of  his  obscure  perilous  life. 

[the  tvhole  music  clashes  into  a  Chorus 


Wandering  demons  hear  the  spell ! 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel — 
[  The  iiicetisc  on  the  altar  takes  fire  suddenly,  and  an 
illumi?iatcd  picture  of  Alvar's  assassination  is  dis- 
covered, and  having  remained  a  few  seconds  is  tfien 
hidden  by  tJie  ascending  flames. 
Ord.  {starting.)  Duped  I  duped  I  duped  ! — the  traitor  Isidore  ! 
[At  this  i?ista7it  the  doors  are  forced  02)en,  Mofiviedro 
a7id  the  familiars  of  the  Inquisition,  servants,  6fT 
enter  and  fill  the  stage. 

RKMORSK.  875 

Mon.  First  seize  the  sorcerer  !  suffer  him  not  to  speak  ! 
The  holy  judges  of  the  Inquisition 

Shall  hear  his  first  words. — Look  you  pale,  Lord  Valdez  ? 
Plain  evidence  have  we  here  of  most  foul  sorcery. 
There  is  a  dungeon  underneath  this  castle, 
And  as  you  hope  for  mild  interpretation, 
Surrender  instantly  the  keys  and  charge  of  it. 

Ord.  {rccavenng  himself  as  from  sf.upar,  to  servants.)  "Why 
haste  you  not  ?     Off  with  him  to  the  dungeon  !         ^ 

[all  rush  out  in  tumult. 

Scene  IL — Interior  of  a  chapel,  tcith  painted  taindaics. 

Enter  Teresa. 

When  first  I  entered  this  pure  spot,  forebodings 
Pressed  heavy  on  my  heart :  but  as  I  knelt, 
Such  calm  uwonted  bliss  possessed  my  spirit, 
A  trance  so  cloudless,  that  those  sounds,  hard  by, 
Of  trampling  uproar  fell  upon  mine  ear 
As  alien  and  unnoticed  as  the  rain-storm 
Beats  on  the  roof  of  some  fair  banquet  room 

While  sweetest  melodies  are  warbling 

Enter  Valdez. 

Val.  Ye  pitying  saints,  forgive  a  father's  blindness, 
And  extricate  us  from  this  net  of  peril ! 

Ter.  Who  wakes  anew  my  fears,  and  speaks  of  peril  ? 

Val.  0  best  Teresa,  wisely  wert  thou  prompted  I 
This  was  no  feat  of  mortal  agency  I 
That  picture — Oh,  that  picture  tells  me  all ! 
With  a  flash  of  light  it  came,  in  flames  it  vanished. 
Self-kindled,  self-consumM  :  bright  as  thy  life. 
Sudden  and  unexpecte<l  as  thy  fate, 
Alvar !  My  son  !  my  son ! — The  Inquisitor 

Ter.  Torture  me  not !     But  Alvar — Oh  of  Alvar  ? 

Val.  How  oflen  would  he  plead  for  these  Morescoes ! 
The  brood  accurst !  remorseless,  coward  murderers ! 

Ter.  So  ?  so  ? — I  comprehend  you — he  is 

Val.  He  is  no  more ! 

Ter.  0  sorrow  I  that  a  father's  voice  should  say  this, 
A  father's  heart  believe  it ! 

876  REMORSE. 

VaL  A  worse  sorrow 

Are  fancy's  wild  hopes  to  a  heart  despairiDg ! 

Ter.  These  rays  that  slant  in  through  those  goigteous  wiodowi. 
From  yon  bright  orb — though  colored  as  they  pass. 
Are  they  not  light  ? — Even  so  that  voice,  Lord  Yaldez ! 
Which  whispers  to  my  soul,  though  haply  varied 
By  many  a  fancy,  many  a  wishful  hope, 
Speaks  yet  the  truth  :  and  Alvar  lives  for  me  I 

Vol.  Yes,  for  three  wasting  years,  thus  and  no  other. 
He  has  lived  for  thee — a  spirit  for  thy  spirit ! 
My  child,  we  must  not  give  religious  faith 
To  every  voice  which  makes  the  heart  a  listener 
To  its  own  wish. 

Ter.  I  breath' d  to  the  Unerring 

Permitted  prayers.     Must  those  remain  unanswered. 
Yet  impious  sorcery,  that  holds  no  commune 
Save  with  the  lying  spirit,  claim  belief? 

VaL  0  not  to-day,  not  now  for  the  first  time 
Was  Alvar  lost  to  ihee — 

Accursed  assassins  ! 
Disarm'd,  o'crpowered,  despairing  of  defence, 
At  his  bared  breast  he  seem'd  to  grasp  some  relique 
More  dear  than  was  his  life 

Ter.  0  Heavens  I  my  portrait  I 

And  he  did  grasp  it  in  his  death-pang  I 

Ofi*  false  demon, 
That  beat'st  thy  black  wings  close  above  my  head  I 

[Ordonio  enters  with  the  keys  of  the  dintgeon  in  his  Iiand. 
Hush  I  who  comes  here  ?     The  wizard  Moor's  employer  I 
Moors  were  his  murderers.,  you  say  ?     Saints  shield  us 

From  wicked  thoughts 

[  Valdez  moves  towards  the  back  of  t lie  stage  to  meet  Or* 
do?iio,  a?td  during  the  concluding  li^us  of  Teresa^ i 
speech  appears  as  eagerly  conversing  with  him. 

Is  Alvar  dead  ?  what  then  ? 
The  nuptial  rites  and  funeral  shall  be  one  I 
Here's  no  abiding-place  for  thee,  Teresa. — 
Away  I  they  see  me  not — Thou  scest  me,  Alvar  ! 
To  thee  I  bend  my  course. — But  first  one  question, 

REMORSE.  377 

One  question  to  Ordonio. — My  limbs  tremble — 
There  I  may  sit  unmark'd — a  moment  will  restore  nie. 

[Retires  out.of  sight, 

Ord.  {as  he  advances  tvithValdez.)    These  are  the  dungcoi 
keys.     Monviedro  knew  not, 
That  I  too  had  received  the  wizard's  message, 
*'  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again." 
But  now  he  is  satisfied,  I  planned  this  scheme 
To  work  a  full  conviction  on  the  culprit, 
And  he  intrusts  him  wholly  to  my  keeping. 

Val.  *Tis  well,  my  son  I     But  have  you  yet  discovered — 
(Where  is  Teresa  ?)  what  those  speeches  meant — 
Pride,  and  hypocrisy,  and  guilt,  and  cunning  ? 
Then  when  the  wizard  fix'd  his  eye  on  you, 
And  you,  I  know  not  why,  look'd  pale  and  trembled — 
Why — why,  what  ails  you  now  ? — 

Ord.  Me  ?  what  ails  me  ? 

A  pricking  of  the  blood — It  might  have  happen'd 
At  any  other  time. — Why  scan  you  me  ? 

Val,  His  speech  about  the  corse,  and  stabs  and  murderers 
Boro*  reference  to  the  assassins 

Ord.  Dup'd  !  dup'd  I  dup'd  ! 

The  traitor  Isidore  I  \a  pause,  tlien  tcildly, 

I  tell  thee,  my  dear  father  ! 
I  am  most  glad  of  this. 

VaL  True — sorcer}' 

Merits  its  doom  ;  and  this  perchance  may  guide  us 
To  the  discovery  of  the  murderers. 
I  have  their  statures  and  their  several  faces 
So  present  to  me,  that  but  once  to  meet  them 
Would  be  to  recognize. 

Ord.  Yes  I  yes  !  we  recognize  them. 

I  was  benumb'd,  and  staggered  up  and  down 
Through  darkness  without  light — dark — dark — dark  ! 
My  Aesh  crept  chill,  my  limbs  felt  manacleil. 
As  had  a  snake  coil'd  round  them  ! — Now  'tis  sunshine. 
And  the  blood  dances  freely  through  its  channels  ! 

[then  to  hiniselj. 
This  is  my  virtuous,  grateful  Isidore  ! 

[then  mimicking  Isidore's  manner  a' id  voice. 

378  BBMOB8B. 

"  A  colimon  trick  of  gratitude,  my  lord !" 

Old  Gratitude  !  a  dagger  would  dissect 

His  "  own  full  heart" — 'twere  good  to  see  its  color. 

Vol.  These  magic  sights  !  0  that  I  ne'er  had  yielded 
To  your  entreaties  !  Neither  had  I  yielded, 
But  that  in  spite  of  your  own  seeming  faith 
I  held  it  for  some  innocent  stratagem, 
Which  love  had  prompted,  to  remove  the  doubts 
Of  wild  Teresa — by  fancies  quelling  fancies  I 

OtlI.  Love !  love  !  and  then  we  hate  !  and  what  ?  and  wher» 
fore  ? 
Hatred  and  love  !  fancies  opposed  by  fancies  ! 
What,  if  one  reptile  sting  another  reptile  ? 
Where  is  the  crime  ?  The  goodly  face  of  nature 
Hath  one  disfeaturing  stain  the  less  upon  it.  we  not  all  predestined  transiency. 
And  cold  dishonor  ?  Grant  it,  that  this  hand 
Had  given  a  morsel  to  the  hungry  worms 
Somewhat  too  early — Where's  the  crime  of  this  ? 
That  this  must  necls  bring  on  the  idiocy 
Of  moist-eyed  penitence — 'tis  like  a  dream  I 

VaL  W^ild  talk,  my  son  I  But  thy  excess  of  feehng 

Almost  I  fear  it  hath  unhinged  his  brain. 

Ord.  [Teresa  reappears  and  advances  slowly.) 
8av,  I  had  laid  a  body  in  the  sun  I 
Well  I  in  a  month  tliere  swarms  forth  from  the  corse 
A  thousand,  nay,  ten  thousand  sentient  beings 
In  place  of  that  one  man. — Say,  I  had  kilTd  him  I 

[  Teresa  stops  liUefting. 
Yet  who  shall  tell  me,  that  each  one  and  all 
Of  these  ten  thousand  lives  is  not  as  happy, 
As  that  one  life,  which  bein*^  jiush'd  aside, 
Made  room  for  these  THmumboivd 

VaL  0  mere  madness ! 

[Teresa  nwas  Jtastihf  furivanls,  and  j)la<es  Iwrself  dp 
recti  If  before  Ordonio. 

Ord    Teresa  ?  or  the  phantom  of  Teresa  ? 

Ter.  Alas  I  the  phantom  only,  if  in  truth 
The  substance  of  her  being,  her  lile's  life. 
Have  ta'on  its  flijjht  throujrh  Alvar's  death-wound — 

RKMOKSK.  879 

(a  pause.)  Where — 

(Even  coward  murder  grants  llie  dead  a  prave) 
O  tell  me,  Valdez! — answer  me,  Ordonio! 
Where  hes  the  corse  of  my  betrothed  husband  ? 

Ord.  There,  where  Ordonio  likewise  would  fain  lie  I 
In  the  sleep-compeHing  earth,  in  unpierc'd  darkness! 
For  while  we  live — 
An  inward  day  that  never,  never  sets, 
Glares  round  the  soul,  and  mocks  the  closing  eyelids! 


Over  his  rocky  grave  the  fir-grove  sighs 

A  lulHng  ceaseless  dirge!  'Tis  well  with  him. 

[  Strides  off  towards  the  altar,  but  returns  as  Valdez  is  speaking 

Ter.  The  rock  !  the  fir-grove  !  |  To  VaUlez 

Did 'at  thou  hear  him  say  it  ? 
Hush  !  I  will  ask  him  ! 

Val.                         Urge  him  not — not  now  ! 
This  we  beheld.  Nor  he  nor  I  know  more, 
Than  what  the  magic  imagery  revealed. 
The  assassin,  who  pressed  ibremost  of  the  three 

Ord.  A  tender-hearted,  scrupulous,  grateful  villain. 
Whom  I  will  strangle  ! 

Val.  While  his  two  companions — 

Ord,  Dead  !  dead  already  !  what  care  we  for  the  dead  ? 

Val.  {to  Teresa,)  Pity  him  !  soothe  him  !  disenchant  his  spirit 
These  supernatural  shows,  this  strange  disclosure, 
And  this  too  fond  affection ,  which  still  broods 
0*er  Alvar's  fate,  and  still  burns  to  avenge  it — 
These  struggling  with  his  hopeless  love  for  you, 
Distemper  him,  and  give  reality 
To  the  creatures  of  his  fancy. 

Ord.  Is  it  so  ? 

Yes  !  yes  !  even  like  a  child,  that  too  abruptly 
Roused  by  a  glare  of  light  from  deepest  sleep 
iStarts  up  bewildered  and  talks  idly. 

Father ! 
What  if  the  Moors  that  made  my  brother's  grave, 
Even  now  were  <li«rgiiig  ours?  AVhal  if  the  bolt, 
Though  aini\l.  I  doubt  not,  at  the  son  of  Valdez, 
Vet  miss'd  its  true  aim  when  it  fell  on  Alvar  ? 

ago  REMORSK. 

Val.  Alvar  ne'er  fought  against  the  Moors, — say  ralbei; 
He  was  their  advocate  ;  but  you  had  marched 
With  fire  and  desolation  through  their  villages.— 
Yet  he  by  chance  was  captured. 

Ord,  Unknown,  perhaps, 

Captured,  yet  as  the  son  of  Yaldez,  murdered. 
Leave  all  to  ine.     Nay,  whither,  gentle  lady  ? 

Val.  What  seek  you  now  ? 

Ter.  A  better,  surer  light 

To  guide  me 

Both  Val.  and  Ord.  Whither  ? 

Ter.  To  the  only  place 

Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me,  and  ease  of  heart. 
These  walls  seem  threatening  to  fall  in  upon  me  I 
Detain  me  not !  a  dim  power  drives  me  hence. 
And  that  will  be  my  guide. 

Val.  To  find  a  lover! 

Suits  that  a  high-born  maiden's  modesty  ? 

0  folly  and  shame  I  Tempt  not  my  rage,  Teresa ! 
Ter.  Hopeless,  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage. 

And  am  I  hastening  to  the  arms 0  Heaven  I 

1  haste  but  to  the  arave  of  inv  beloved  ! 

[Exit,  Valdcz  following  after  her, 
Ord.  This,  then,  is  mv  reward  I  and  I  must  love  her? 
Scorn'd  !  shudder'd  at  !  yet  love  her  still  ?  yes !  yes ! 
By  the  deep  feelinjrs  of  revenge  and  hate 
I  will  still  love  her — woo  her — win  heV  too  ! 
(a  ])ause)  Isidore  safe  and  silent,  and  the  portrait 
Found  on  the  wizard — he,  belike,  self-poison'd 

To  escape  the  crueller  flames My  soul  shouts  triumph  f 

The  mine  is  undermined  I  blood  I  blood !  blood  ! 
They  thirst  for  thy  blood  !  thy  blood,  Ordonio ! 

The  hunt  is  up !  and  in  the  midnight  wood 
With  lights  to  dazzle,  and  with  nets  they  seek 
A  timid  prey  :  and  lo  !  the  tiger's  eye 
Glares  in  the  red  flame  of  his  hunter's  tcrch ! 

To  Isidore  I  will  despatch  a  message, 

And  lure  him  to  the  cavern  I  aye,  that  cavern  I 

[a  pause. 

REMORSE.  881 

He  can  not  fail  to  find  it.     Thither  I'll  lure  him, 
Wlieuce  he  shall  never,  never  more  return  ! 

[Looks  through  tlie  side  tmndow, 
A  rim  of  the  sun  lies  yet  upon  the  sea. 
And  now  'tis  gone !  All  shall  be  done  to-night. 



Scene  I. — A  cavern,  dark,  except  where  a  gleam  of  moonlight 
is  seen  on  one  side  at  the  further  end  ofit;  sujyposed  to  bt 
cast  on  it  from  a  crevice  i?t  a  jxirt  oftlie  cavern  out  of  sight. 

Isidore  alone,  an  extinguished  torch  in  his  hand. 

Isid.  Faith  'twas  a  moving  letter — ^very  moving  ! 
"  His  life  in  danger,  no  place  safe  but  this  ! 
'Twas  his  turn  now  to  talk  of  gratitude." 
And  yet — but  no  !  there  can't  be  such  a  villain. 
It  can  not  be  I 

Thanks  to  that  little  crevice, 
Which  lets  the  moonlight  in !  I'll  go  and  sit  by  it. 
To  peep  at  a  tree,  or  see  a  he-goat's  beard. 
Or  hear  a  cow  or  tw^o  breathe  loud  in  their  sleep — 
Any  thing  but  this  crash  of  water  drops  ! 
These  dull  abortive  sounds  that  fret  the  silence 
With  puny  thwartings  and  mock  opposition  ! 
So  beats  the  death-watch  to  a  sick  man's  ear. 

[He  goes  out  (f  sight,  opposite  to  tlie  patch  of  moonlight^ 
and  returns. 
A  hellish  pit !  The  very  same  I  dreamt  of! 
I  was  just  in — and  those  damn'd  fingers  of  ice 
Which  clutch'd  my  hair  up  I  Ha  I — what's  that — it  mov'd. 

[Isidore  stands  staring  at  another  recess  in  the  cavern.    In 
tlie  mean  time  Ordonio  enters  with  a  torch,  and  Jiallocs 
to  Isidore. 
Isid,  I  swear  that  I  saw  something  moving  there. 

The  moonshine  came  \nd  went  like  a  flash  of  lightning 

I  swear  I  saw  it  move. 

Ord.  (goes  into  tl^e  r&;ess,  then  returns.)  A  jutting  clay  stoni* 

882  KEMOBSE. 

Drops  on  the  long  lank  weed,  that  grows  beneath : 
And  the  weed  nods  and  drips. 

I$id.  A  jest  to  laugh  at ! 

It  was  not  that  which  scar'd  me,  good  my  lord. 

Ord.  What  scared  vou,  then  ? 

Isid.  You  see  that  little  rift  ? 

But  first  permit  me  ! 

[LigJUs  his  torch  at  Ordonio's,  and  while  ligliling  it, 
(A  lighted  torch  in  the  hand 
Is  no  unpleasant  object  here^-one's  breath 
Floats  round  the  flame,  and  makes  as  many  colors 
As  the  thin  clouds  that  travel  near  the  moon.) 
You  see  that  crevice  there  ? 
My  torch  extinguished  by  these  water  drops, 
And  marking  that  the  moonlight  came  from  thence, 
I  stept  in  to  it,  meaning  to  sit  there ; 
But  scarcely  had  I  measured  twenty  paces — 
My  body  bending  forward,  yea  o'erbalanced 
Almost  bevoiid  recoil,  on  the  dim  brink 
Of  a  huge  chasm  I  stept.     The  shadowy  moonshine 
Filling  the  void  so  counterfeited  substance, 
That  my  foot  hung  aslant  adown  the  edge. 
Was  it  my  own  fear  ? 

Fear  too  hath  its  instincts  I 
(And  yet  such  dens  as  these  are  wildly  told  of.) 
And  there  arc  beings  that  live,  yet  not  for  the  eye. 
An  arm  of  frost  above  and  from  behind  me 
Pluck'd  up  and  snatched  me  backward.     Merciful  Heaven  ! 
You  smile  !  alas,  even  smiles  hwk  ghastly  here ! 
My  lord,  I  pray  you,  go  yourself  and  view  it. 

Ord.  It  must  have  shot  some  pleasant  feelings  through  you 

Isid.  If  every  atom  of  a  dead  man's  llesh 
Should  creep,  each  one  with  a  particular  life, 
Yet  all  as  cold  as  ever — 'twas  just  so  I 
Or  had  it  drizzled  neeiUe  points  of  frost 
Upon  a  feverish  head  made  suddenly  bald  — 

Ord,  Why.  Isidore, 

I  blush  for  thy  cowardice.     It  might  have  startle*!. 
I  grant  you,  even  a  brave  man  for  a  nioineu*  — 
But  such  a  panic — 

REMORSE.  883 

Isid.  When  a  boy,  my  lord ! 

1  could  have  sate  whole  hours  beside  that  chasm, 
Push'd  in  huge  stones  and  heard  them  strike  and  rattle 
Against  its  horrid  sides  :  then  hung  my  head 
Low  down,  and  listened  till  the  heavy  fragments 
Sank  with  faint  crash  in  that  still  groaning  well, 
Which  never  thirsty  pilgrim  blest,  which  never 
A  living  thing  came  near — unless,  perchance. 
Some  blind-worm  battens  on  the  ropy  mould 
Close  at  its  edge. 

Ord.  Art  thou  more  coward  now  ? 

Isid.  Call  him  that  fears  his  fellow-man  a  coward  f 
I  fear  not  man — but  this  inhuman  cavern, 
It  were  too  bad  a  prison  house  tor  goblins. 
Beside,  (you'll  smile,  my  lord)  but  true  it  is. 
My  last  night's  sleep  was  very  sorely  haunted 
By  what  hud  passed  between  us  in  the  morning. 

0  sleep  ol'  horrors  I     Now  run  down  and  stared  at 
By  forms  so  hideous  that  they  mock  remembrance^- 
Now  seeing  nothing  and  imagining  nothing. 

But  only  being  afraid — stifled  with  fear ! 

\Miile  every  goodly  or  familiar  form 

Had  a  strange  power  of  breathing  terror  roimd  me ! 

1  saw  you  in  a  thousand  fearful  shapes  ; 
And  I  entreat  your  lordship  to  believe  me. 
In  my  last  dream 

Ord.  Well  ? 

Isid.  I  was  in  the  act 

Of  falling  down  that  chasm,  when  Alhadra 
Wak'd  me :  she  heard  my  heart  beat. 

Ord.  Strange  enough  I 

Had  you  been  hero  In-'fore  ? 

Isid.  Never,  my  lord  I 

But  mine  eyes  do  not  nee  it  now  more  clearly. 
Than  in  my  dream  I  saw — that  very  chasm. 

Ord.  {affer  a  pause.)  1  know  not  why  it  should  be  !  yet  it  is — 

Isid.     What  is,  mv  lonl  ? 

Ord.  Abhorrent  irom  our  nature, 
To  kill  a  man — 

Isifl.  Except  in  rtelf-defeuco 

884  REMOKSE. 

Ord.  Why  that's  my  case ;  and  yet  the  soul  reoails  fima  i 

Tis  so  with  me  at  least.     But  you,  perhaps, 
Have  sterner  feelings  ? 

Isid,  Something  troubles  you. 

How  shall  I  serve  you  ?     By  the  life  you  gave  me. 
By  all  that  makes  that  life  of  value  to  me, 
My  wife,  my  babes,  my  honor,  I  swear  to  you, 
Name  it,  and  I  will  toil  to  do  the  thing, 
If  it  be  innocent !     But  this,  my  lord  ! 
Is  not  a  place  where  you  could  perpetrate, 
No,  nor  propose  a  wicked  thing.     The  darkness, 
When  ten  strides  off  we  know  *tis  cheerful  mooiuight, 
Collects  the  guilt,  and  crowds  it  round  the  heart. 
It  must  be  innocent. 

Ord.  Thyself  be  judge. 

One  of  our  family  knew  this  place  well. 
Isid.  Who  ?  when  ?  my  lord  ? 
Ord,  What  boots  it,  who  or  when  ? 
Hang  up  thy  torch — I'll  tell  his  tale  to  thee. 

[  They  ka?ig  vp  their  torches  on  some  ridge  m  the  cavern 
He  was  a  man  diflerent  from  other  men, 
And  he  despised  them,  yet  revered  himself 

Isid.  (aside.)  He  ?  He  despise  ?  Thou'rt  speaking  of  thyself? 
I  am  on  my  guard  however  :  no  surprise. 

[  Tfien  to  Ordonin, 
What,  he  was  mad  ? 

Ord.  All  men  seemed  mad  lo  him  I 

Nature  had  made  him  for  some  other  planet. 
And  pressed  his  soul  into  a  human  shape 
By  accident  or  malice.     In  this  world 
He  found  no  fit  companion. 

Isid.  Of  himself  he  speaks',  [aside. 

Alas  I  jK)or  wretch  I 
Mad  men  are  mostly  proud. 

Ord.  He  walked  alone. 

And  phantom  thou<jhts  unsought-for  troubled  him. 
Something  within  would  still  be  shadowing  out 
All  possibilities  ;  and  with  these  shadows 
His  mind  held  dalliance.     Once,  as  so  it  happened, 
A  fancy  crossed  him  wilder  than  the  rest : 

RRMORSE.  a8§ 

To  this  in  moody  murmur  and  low  voice 
He  yielded  utterance,  as  some  talk  in  sleep : 
The  man  who  heard  him. — 

Why  didst  thou  look  round  ? 

Isid.  I  have  a  prattler  three  years  old,  my  lord  ! 
Ill  trulh  he  is  my  darling.     As  I  went 
From  forth  my  door,  he  made  a  moan  in  sleep — 
But  I  am  talking  idly — pray  proceed  ! 
And  what  did  this  man  ? 

Ord.  With  this  human  hand 

He  gave  a  substance  and  reality 
To  that  wild  fancy  of  a  possible  thing. — 
Well  it  was  done  ! 

Why  babblest  thou  of  guilt  ? 
The  deed  was  done,  and  it  passed  fairly  oil*. 
And  he  whose  tale  I  tell  thee — dost  thou  listen  ? 

Isid.  I  would,  my  lord,  you  were  by  my  fireside, 
I'd  listen  to  you  with  an  eager  eye. 
Though  you  began  this  cloudy  tale  at  midnight. 
But  I  do  listen — ^pray  proceed,  my  lord. 

Ord.  Where  was  I  ? 

Isid,  Ho  of  whom  you  tell  the  tale^ — 

Ord.  Surveying  all  things  with  a  quiet  scorn. 
Tamed  himself  down  to  living  purposes. 
The  occupations  and  the  semblances 
Of  ordinary  men — and  such  he  seemed  ! 
But  that  same  over  ready  agent — he — 

Isid.  Ah  I  what  of  him,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  He  proved  a  traitor. 

Betrayed  the  mystery  to  a  brother  traitor, 
And  they  between  them  hatch'd  a  damned  plot 
To  hunt  him  down  to  infamy  and  death. 
What  did  the  Yaldez  ?  I  am  proud  of  the  name 
Kince  he  dared  do  it. — 

[Ordonio  grasps  his  sword,  a?id  turns  off  from  Isidore,  then 
af'cr  a  jxiusc  returns. 

Our  links  burn  dimly. 

Isid.  A  dark  tale  darkly  fmished  !     Nay,  my  lonl  1 
Tell  what  he  did. 

Ord.  That  which  h's  wisdom  prompted — 

VOL.    VII.  K 

886  KEHOBSE. 

lie  made  the  traitor  meet  him  in  this  caveni. 
And  here  he  kill'd  the  traitor. 

hid.  No !  the  fool ! 

He  had  not  wit  enough  to  he  a  traitor. 
Poor  thick-eved  beetle!  not  to  have  foreseen 
That  he  who  gulled  thee  with  a  whimpered  lie 
To  murder  his  own  brother,  would  not  scruple 
To  murder  thee,  if  e'er  his  guilt  grew  jealous, 
And  he  could  steal  upon  thee  in  the  dark ! 
Ord,  Thou  wouldst  not  then  have  come,  if — 
Isid.  Oh  yes,  my  lord  ! 
I  would  have  met  him  arm'd,  and  scar'd  the  coward. 

{Isidore  throws  off  his  robe;  sliows  himself  anned,  and 
d rates  his  sicord. 
Ord.  Now  this  is  excellent  and  warms  the  blood  ! 
My  heart  was  drawing  back,  drawing  me  back 
With  weak  and  womanish  scruples.     Now  my  vengeance 
Beckons  me  onwards  with  a  warrior's  mien, 
And  claims  that  life,  my  pity  robbed  her  of — 
Xow  will  I  kiJl  thet',  thankless  slave,  and  count  it 
A.mong  my  comfortable  thoughts  hereafter. 
hid.  And  all  mv  little  ones  fatherless — 

Die  thou  first. 
{They  f^ht,  Onhuio  disarms  Isidore,  and  in  disarming 
liim  throws  his  sicord  up  that  recess-  opposite  to  ichich 
thvy  were  standing.       Isidore   hurries  into  the  recess 
iritJi,  his  torchy  Ordonio  follows  him  ;    a  loud  cry  of 
"  Traitor!  Mo?ister /"  is  heard  from  tJte  cavern,  and 
i/i  a  inoment  Ordonio  returns  alone. 
Ord.  I  have  hurled  him  down  the  chasm  !  treason  for  treason. 
He  dreamt  of  it  :  henceforward  let  him  sleep, 
■V  dreamless  slecj),  i'roin  which  no  wife  can  wake  him. 
His  dream  too  is  made  out — now  for  his  friend. 

[Exit  Ordonio. 

Scene    II.*  —  Thr  interior   Court  (f  a   Saracenic  or  Gothic 
Castle,  with  the.  iro/i  gate  tf  a  du)igcon  visible. 

Ter.  Heart-chilling  superstition  !  thou  canst  glaze 
Ev'n  pity's  eye  with  her  own  frozen  tear. 

*  Se«  Appendix,  p.  40.'5. 

REHOBSE.  887 

[n  vdin  I  urge  the  tortures  that  await  him  : 
Even  Sclma,  reverend  guardian  of  my  childhood, 
My  second  mother,  shuts  her  heart  against  me  ! 
Well,  I  have  won  from  her  what  most  imports 
The  present  need,  the  secret  of  the  dungeon 
Known  only  to  herself. — A  Moor  !  a  Sorcerer  ! 
No,  I  have  faith,  that  nature  ne'er  permitted 
Jiasoness  to  wear  a  form  so  nohle.     True, 
I  doubt  not,  that  Ordonio  had  suborned  him 
To  act 'some  part  in  some  unholy  fraud  ; 
As  little  doubt  that  for  some  unknown  purpose 
He  hath  baflled  his  suborner,  terror-struck  him. 
And  that  Ordonio  meditates  revenge  ! 
But  my  resolve  is  fixed  !  myself  will  rescue  him. 
And  learn  if  haply  ho  knew  aught  of  Alvar. 

Enter   Valdez. 

Val.  Still  sad  ? — and  gazing  at  the  massive  door 
Of  that  fell  dungeon  which  thou  neVr  had'st  sight  of. 
Save  what,  perchance,  thy  infant  fancy  shaped  it 
AVhen  the  nurse  stilfd  thy  cries  with  unmeant  threats. 
Now  by  my  faith,  girl !  this  same  wizard  haunts  thee ! 
A  stately  man,  and  eloquent  and  tender — 
\Vho  then  need  wonder  if  a  lady  sighs 
Even  at  the  thought  of  what  these  stern  Dominicans— 

Ter.  The  horror  of  their  ghastly  punishments 
Doth  so  o*crtop  the  height  of  all  compassion. 
That  I  should  feel  too  little  for  mine  cnemv, 
[f  it  were  possible  I  could  feel  more. 
Even  though  the  dearest  inmates  of  our  household 
Were  doom'd  to  sufl'er  them.     That  such  things  are — 

Val.  Hush,  thoughtless  woman  1 

Ter.  Nay,  it  wakes  within  me 

More  than  a  woman's  spirit. 

Val.  No  more  of  this — 

What  if  Monviedro  or  his  creatures  hear  us  ! 
[  dare  not  listeu  to  you. 

Tct'.  My  honored  lord, 

These  were  my  Alvar's  lessons,  and  whene'er 
I  l>end  me  o'er  his  portrait,  I  repeat  them, 
As  if  to  give  a  voice  to  the  mute  image. 

388  lOSMOBBE. 

Vol,  We  have  monmed  for  Aivar. 

Of  his  sad  fate  there  now  remains  no  douht 
Have  I  no  other  son  ? 

Tcr.  Speak  not  of  him  ! 

That  low  imposture !  That  mysterious  picture ! 
If  this  he  madness,  must  I  wed  a  madman  ? 
And  if  not  madness,  there  is  mystery, 
And  guilt  doth  lurk  behind  it. 

Vat.  Is  this  well  ? 

Ter.  Yes,  it  is  truth  :  saw  you  his  countenance  ? 
How  rage,  remorse,  and  scorn,  and  stupid  fear 
Displaced  each  other  with  swift  interchanges  ? 

0  that  I  had  indeed  the  sorcerer's  power. 

1  would  call  up  before  thine  eyes  the  image 
Of  my  betrothed  Alvar,  of  thy  first-born  ! 
His  own  fair  countenance,  his  kingly  forehead, 
His  tender  smiles,  lovers  day-dawn  on  his  lips  I 
That  s])iritual  and  almost  heavenly  light 

In  his  conimauding  eye — his  mien  heroic, 
Virtue's  own  native  heraldry  I  to  man 
Genial,  and  pleasant  to  his  guardian  angel. 
Whene'er  he  gladdeu'd,  how  the  gladness  spread 
Wide  round  him  I  and  when  oft  with  swelling  tears, 
Flash'd  through  bv  indijrnalion  he  bewail'd 
The  wrongs  ol' Belgium's  martyr'd  patriots, 
Oh,  what  a  grief  was  there — lor  joy  to  envy. 
Or  gaze  u})on  enamord  I 

O  my  father  ! 
Recall  that  morning  when  we  knelt  together. 
And  thou  didst  bless  our  loves  !  0  even  now, 
Even  now,  my  sire  I  to  thy  mind's  eye  present  him. 
As  at  that  moment  ho  rose  up  before  thee, 
Stately,  with  beaming  look  !  Place,  place  beside  him 
Ordonio's  dark  perturbed  coimtenance  I 
Then  bid  me  (O  thou  couldst  not)  bid  me  turn 
From  him,  the  joy,  the  triumph  of  our  kind  I 
To  take  in  exchange  that  brooding  man  who  never 
Lifks  up  his  eye  from  the  earth,  unless  to  scowl. 

Val.  Ungrateful  woman  I  1  have  tried  to  stillo 
An  old  man's  passion  !  was  it  not  enough. 

REMORSE.  389 

That  thou  hast  made  my  son  a  restless  man, 
Banish'd  his  health.,  and  half  unhing'd  his  reason  ; 
But  that  thou  wilt  insult  him  with  suspicion  ! 
j\nd  toil  to  blast  his  honor  ?     I  am  old, 
A  comfortless  old  man  ! 

Ter.  0  grief !  to  hear 

Hateful  entreaties  from  a  voice  we  love  ! 

Kilter  a  Peasayit  ami  presefits  a  letter  to  Valdez. 

Val.  {reading  it.)  **  He  dares  not  venture  hither !"      Wbjf 
what  can  this  mean  ? 
*•  Lest  the  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition, 
That  watch  around  my  gates,  should  intercept  him  ; 
But  he  conjures  me,  that  without  delay 
I  hasten  to  him — for  my  own  sake  entreats  me 
To  guard  from  danger  him  I  hold  imprisoned — 
He  will  reveal  a  secret,  the  joy  of  which 
Will  even  outweigh  the  sorrow." — ^Why  what  can  this  be  ? 
Perchance  it  is  some  Moorish  stratagem. 
To  have  in  me  a  hostage  for  his  safety. 
Nay,  that  they  dare  not !  Ho  I  collect  my  servants  I 
I  will  go  thither — let  them  arm  themselves. 

[Exit  Valdez. 

Ter,  (alone.)  The  moon  is  high  in  heaven  and  all  is  hush'd. 
Yet  anxious  listener  !  I  have  seemed  to  hear 
A  low  dead  thunder  mutter  thro*  the  night. 
As  'twere  a  giant  angr}'  in  his  sleep. 

0  Alvar  !  Alvar  I  that  they  could  return 

Those  blessed  days  that  imitated  heaven, 

When  we  two  wont  to  walk  at  eventide 

When  we  saw  naught  but  beauty  ;  when  we  heard 

The  voice  of  that  Almighty  One  who  loved  us 

In  every  gale  that  breathed,  and  wave  that  mnrmuiHl ! 

0  we  have  listen'd,  even  till  high-wrought  pleasure, 

Hath  half  assumed  the  countenance  of  grief. 

And  the  deep  sigh  seemed  to  heave  up  a  weight 

Of  bliss,  that  pressed  too  heavy  on  the  heart. 

And  this  majestic  Moor,  seems  he  not  one 
Who  oil  and  long  communing  with  my  Alvar, 

[a  pante. 

890  REMORSS. 

Hath  drunk  in  kindred  lustre  from  his  preMaoa» 
And  guides  me  to  him  with  reflected  light  ? 
What  if  in  yon  dark  dungeon  coward  treachery 
Be  groping  for  him  with  envenomed  poniard — 
Hence  womanish  fears,  traitors  to  love  and  duty — 
I'll  free  him.  [Exit 

Scene  III. —  Tlie  mountains  by  moonlight 

AUiadra  alone  in  a  Moorish  dress, 

Alh.  Yon  banging  woods,  that  touch'd  by  autumn  seem 
As  they  were  blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold ; 
The  flower-like  woods,  most  lovely  in  decay, 
The  many  clouds,  the  sea,  the  rock,  the  sands, 
Lie  in  the  silent  moonshine  :   and  the  owl, 
(Strange  I  very  strange  !)  the  scritch-owl  only  wakes  I 
Sole  voice,  sole  eye  of  all  this  world  of  beauty ! 
Unless,  perhaps,  she  siiij^  her  screeching  song 
To  a  herd  of  wolves,  that  skulk  athirst  for  blood. 
Why  such  a  thing  am  I  ? — Where  are  these  men  ? 
I  need  the  sympathy  of  human  laces, 
To  beat  away  tliis  deep  contempt  for  all  things. 
Which  quenches  my  revenge.     Oh  I  would  to  Alia, 
The  raven,  or  the  sea-mew,  were  appointed 
To  bring  me  food  I  or  rather  that  my  soul 
Could  drink  in  life  from  the  universal  air  ! 
It  were  a  lot  divine  in  some  small  skifl' 
Along  some  Ocean's  boundless  solitude, 
To  float  forever  with  a  careless  course, 
And  think  myself  the  only  being  alive ! 

My  children  I — Isidore's  children  I — Son  of  Valdez, 

This  hath  new  strung  mine  arm.     Thou  coward  tyrant ! 

To  stupefy  a  woman's  heart  with  anguii^h, 

Till  she  Ibrgot — even  that  she  was  a  mother  I 

\Slie  fixes  her  eye  on  the  earth.  Then  drop  in  one  afte7 
anotlier,  from  different  parts  of  tJie  stage,  a  considerable 
number  of  Morescoes,  all  in  Moorish  garments  and  Moor* 
ish  artnor,  TJiey  form  a  circle  at  a  distance  round 
Alhadra,  and  remain  silent  till  Naomi  enters. 

REMOKSB.  89] 

Nao.  Woman  !  May  Alia  and  the  prophet  bless  thee ! 
We  have  obeyed  thy  call.     Where  is  our  chief? 
And  why  didst  thou  enjoin  these  Moorish  garments  ? 

Alk.  {raising  J^r  eyes,  and  looking  round  on  Uie  circle,) 
Warriors  of  Mahomet !  faithful  in  the  battle  ! 
My  countrymen  !  Come  ye  prepared  to  work 
An  honorable  deed  ?     And  would  ye  work  it 
In  the  slave's  garb  ?     Curse  on  those  Christian  robes  ! 
They  are  spell-blasted  :  and  whoever  wears  them, 
His  arm  shrinks  withered,  his  heart  melts  away, 
And  his  bones  soften. 

JVao,  Where  is  Isidore  ? 

Alh.  This  night  I  went  from  forth  my  house,  and  left 
His  children  all  asleep  :  and  he  was  living  ! 
And  I  retum'd  and  found  them  still  asleep, 

But  he  had  perished 

All  Morescoes.  Perished  ? 

Alh.  He  had  perished  ! 

Sleep  on,  poor  babes !  not  one  of  you  doth  know 
That  he  is  fatherless — a  desolate  orphan  ; 
Why  should  we  wake  them  ?     Can  an  infant's  arm 
Revenge  his  murder  ? 

One  Morescoe,  (to  another.)  Did  she  say  his  murder  ? 

Nao.  Murder  ?     Not  murdered  ? 

Alh.  Murdered  by  a  Christian  ! 

\They  all  at  once  draw  their  sabres. 
Alh.  (To  Naomi,  wJio  advances  from  tlie  circle.)  Brother  ol 
Zagri  I  fling  away  thy  sword  ; 
This  is  thy  chieftain's  I  [He  steps  forward  to  take  it. 

Dost  thou  dare  receive  it  ? 
For  I  have  sworn  by  Alia  and  the  Prophet, 
No  tears  shall  dim  these  eyes,  this  woman's  heart 
Shall  heave  no  groan,  till  I  have  seen  that  sword 
Wet  with  the  life-blood  of  the  son  of  Valdez  I  [a  pause, 

Ordonio  was  your  chieftain's  murderer  ! 

Nao.  He  dies,  by  Alia  ! 

All.  (kneeling.)  By  Alia  ! 

Alh.  This  night  your  chieftain  armed  himself, 
And  hurried  from  me.     But  1  followed  him 
At  distance,  till  I  saw  him  enter— there. 

^92  &EMOBSB. 

Nao.  The  caveni  ? 

Alh.  Yes,  the  mouth  of  yonder  cavern. 
Afler  a  while  I  saw  the  son  of  Valdez 
Rush  hy  with  flaring  torch  ;  he  likewise  entered. 
There  was  another  and  a  longer  pause ; 
And  once  me  thought  I  heard  the  clash  of  swords  I 
And  soon  the  son  of  Yaldez  re-appeared  : 
He  flung  his  torch  towards  the  moon  in  sport, 
And  seemed  as  he  were  mirthful !     I  stood  listening. 
Impatient  for  the  footsteps  of  my  hushand  ! 

Nao.  Thou  called'st  him  ? 

Alh,  I  crept  into  the  cavern — 

*Twas  dark  aud  very  silent. 

What  saidst  thou  ? 
No !  no  !  I  did  not  dare  call,  Isidore, 
Lest  I  should  hear  no  answer  !     A  hrief  while, 
Belike,  I  lost  all  thought  and  memory 
Of  that  for  which  I  came  I     After  that  pause, 

0  Heaven  I  I  heard  a  groan,  and  followed  it : 
And  yet  another  groan,  which  guided  me 
Into  a  strange  recess — and  there  was  light, 

A  hideous  light !  his  torch  lay  on  the  ground  ; 
Its  flame  burnt  diinlv  o'er  a  chasm's  brink  : 

1  spake  ;  and  whilst  1  spake,  a  ieeble  groan 

Came  from  that  chasm  !  it  was  his  last  1  his  death-groan  I 

Nao.  Comfort  her,  Alia. 

Alh.  I  stood  in  unimaginable  trance 
And  agony  that  can  not  be  rememberecf, 
Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a  groan  ! 
But  I  had  heard  his  last :  my  husband's  death  groan  f 

Nao.  Haste  !  let  us  onward. 

Alh.  I  looked  far  down  the  pit— 

My  sight  was  bounded  by  a  jetting  fragment : 
And  it  was  stained  with  blood.     Then  first  I  slirieked, 
My  eyeballs  burnt,  my  brain  grew  hot  as  fire. 
And  all  the  hanging  drops  on  the  wet  roof 
Turned  into  blood — I  saw  them  turn  to  blood  ! 
And  I  was  leaping  wildly  down  the  chasm, 
When  on  the  farther  bank  I  saw  his  sword, 
And  it  said,  Vengeance  ! — Curses  on  my  toogue  I 

REMORSE.  393 

riie  moon  hath  moved  in  Heaven,  and  I  am  here, 
And  he  hath  not  had  vengeance  !  Isidore  ! 
Spirit  of  Isidore  !  thy  murderer  lives  ! 
Away !  away  ! 

AIL  Away  I  away  ! 

[Sfie  ruslies  off^  allfoUoioing  her 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — A  Dungeon. 

Alvar  (alojie)  rises  slowly  from  a  bed  of  reeds, 

Alv,  And  this  place  my  forefathers  made  for  man ! 
This  is  the  process  of  our  love  and  wisdom  > 

To  each  poor  brother  who  oO'ends  against  us — 
Most  innocent,  perhaps — and  what  if  guilty  ? 
Is  this  the  only  cure  !     Merciful  God  ! 
Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivelled  up 
By  ignorance  and  parching  poverty, 
His  energies  roll  back  upon  his  heart 
And  stagnate  and  corrupt,  till  chang'd  to  poison, 
They  break  out  on  him,  like  a  loathsome  plague-spot  I 
Tlien  we  call  in  our  pampered  mountebanks ; — 
And  this  is  their  best  cure  !  uncomforted 
And  friendless  solitude,  groaning  and  tears 
And  savage  faces,  at  the  clanking  hour, 
Seen  through  the  steam  and  vapors  of  his  dungeon 
By  the  lamp's  dismal  twilight  1     So  he  lies 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
Unmoulds  its  essence  hopelessly  deformed 
By  sights  of  evermore  dcfonnity  ! — 
With  other  ministrations  thou,  0  Nature  ! 
Healest  thy  wandering  and  di8tem])ered  child  : 
Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences. 
Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets ; 
Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waten  I 
Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy ; 

894  REMOK8E. 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 
His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 

[  am  chill  and  weary  !     Yon  rude  bench  of  stone, 
fn  that  dark  angle,  the  sole  resting-place  ! 
Rut  the  self-approving  mind  is  its  own  light, 
And  life's  best  warmth  still  radiates  from  the  heart 
Where  love  sits  brooding,  and  in  honest  purpose. 

[retires  out  of  sight. 
Enier  Teresa  tdth  a  taper. 

Ter.  It  has  chilled  my  very  life — my  own  voice  scares  me ; 

Yet  when  I  hear  it  not  1  seem  to  lose 
The  substance  of  my  being — my  strongest  grasp 
Sends  inwards  but  weak  witness  that  I  am. 
I  seek  to  cheat  the  echo. — How  the  half  sounds 
Blend  with  this  strangled  light  I     Is  ho  not  here — 

[looking  round. 
0  lor  one  human  face  here — but  to  see 
One  human  iace  here  to  sustain  me. — Courage  I 
It  is  but  mv  own  i'ear  !     The  life  within  mc, 
It  sinks  and  wavers  like  this  cone  of  flame, 
Beyond  which  I  scarce  dare  look  onward  I     Oh ! 
If  I  faint?     If  this  inhuman  den  should  be 
At  once  my -death-bed  and  my  burial  vault  ? 

[Faintly  screams  as  Alvar  emerges  ftvr,i  the  recess. 

Alv.  {rushes  towards  hcr^  ami  catclies  her  as  she  is  falling.) 
0  gracious  heaven !  it  is,  it  is  Teresa ! 
Shall  I  reveal  myself?     The  sudden  shock 
Of  rapture  will  blow  out  this  spark  of  life, 
And  joy  complete  what  terror  has  begun. 

0  ye  impetuous  beatings  here,  be  stiil  I 
Teresa,  best  beloved  I  pale,  pale,  and  cold  ! 
Her  pulse  doth  flutter  !     Teresa  I  my  Teresa  ! 

Ter.  (recovering;.)  I  heard  a  voice ;  but  often  in  ray  dreams 

1  hear  that  voice  !  and  wake  and  try — and  trv — 
To  hear  it  waking  I  but  I  never  could — 

And  'lis  so  now — even  so  !     Well  I  he  is  dead — 
Murdered  perhaps  I     And  I  am  faint  and  feel 
As  if  it  were  no  painful  thing  to  die  I 



[a  paute, 
[a  pause 

Aiv.  Believe  it  not,  sweet  maid !     Believe  it  not, 
Beloved  woman  !     'Twas  a  low  imposture 
Framed  by  a  guilty  wretch. 

Tcr.  Ha  !     Who  art  thou  ? 

Alv.  Suborned  by  his  brother — 

Ter.  Didst  thou  murder  him  ? 

And  dost  thou  now  repent  ?     Poor  troubled  man, 
I  do  forgive  thee,  and  may  Heaven  forgive  thee  ! 

Alv.  Ordonio — he — 

Tcr.  If  thou  didst  murder  him — 

His  spirit  ever  at  the  throne  of  God 
Asks  mercy  for  thee, — prays  for  mercy  for  thee, 
With  tears  in  Heaven ! 

Air.  Alvar  was  not  murdered. 

Be  calm  !  be  calm,  sweet  maid  ! 

Ter.  Nay,  nay,  but  tell  me  I 

0  'tis  lost  again ! 
This  dull  confused  pain — 

Mysterious  man ! 
Methinks  I  can  not  fear  thee  :  for  thine  eye 
Doth  swim  with  love  and  pity — Well !  Ordoni( 
Oh  my  foreboding  heart !     And  he  suborned  thee. 
And  thou  didst  spare  his  life?     Blessings  shower  on  thee, 
As  many  as  the  drops  twice  counted  o'er 
In  the  iond  faithful  heart  of  his  Teresa! 

Air.  1  can  endure  no  more.     The  Moorish  sorcerer 
Exists  but  in  the  stain  u|M)n  his  face. 
Tliat  ])icturo — 

Tcr.  Ha  !  speak  on  I 

Alv.  Beloved  Teresa ! 

It  told  but  half  the  truth.     0  let  this  portrait 
Tell  all — that  Alvar  lives — that  he  is  here  I 
Thy  much  deceived  but  ever  faithful  Alvar. 

\take.H  her  port  rait  f ram  his  iicck  and  gives  U  her, 

Ter.  {receirififr  the  jwrfruit.)     Tlie  same — it  is  the  fame. 
Ah  :  Who  art  thou  ? 
Nay,  I  will  call  thee,  Alvar  I  [stie  fails  on  his  nec^; 

Alv.  0  joy  unutterable  ! 

But  hark  I  a  sound  as  of  removing  bars 
At  the  dungeon's  outer  diNtr.     A  brief,  brief  while. 

896  REHORSB. 

Conceal  thyself,  my  love  !     It  is  Ordonio. 
For  the  honor  of  our  race,  for  our  dear  father ; 
0  for  himself  too  (he  is  still  my  hrother) 
Let  me  recall  him  to  his  nobler  nature. 
That  he  may  wake  as  from  a  dream  of  murder  ! 
O'let  me  reconcile  him  to  himself, 
Open  the  sacred  source  of  penitent  tears, 
And  be  once  more  his  own  beloved  Alvar. 

Ter.  0  my  all  virtuous  love  !     I  fear  to  leave  thee 
With  that  obdurate  man. 

Alv.  Thou  dost  not  leave  me  I 

But  a  brief  while  retire  into  the  darkness  : 

0  that  my  joy  could  spread  its  sunshine  round  thee  ! 
Ter,  The  sound  of  thy  voice  shall  be  my  music ! 

Alvar  !  my  Alvar  !  am  I  sure  I  hold  thee  ? 

Is  it  no  dream  ?  thee  in  my  arms,  my  Alvar !  \Eixil, 

\A  noise  at  tlie  dungeon  door.     It  opens,  atid  Ordomo 
cTifers,  icith  a  goblet  in  his  hand. 
Ord.  Hail,  potent  wizard !  in  my  gayer  mood 

1  poured  forth  a  libation  to  old  Pluto, 

And  as  I  brimmed  the  bowl,  I  thought  on  thee. 
Thou  hast  conspired  against  my  life  and  honor. 
Hast  tricked  me  foully  ;  yet  I  hate  thee  not. 
Why  should  I  hate  thee  ?  this  same  world  of  ours, 
*Tis  but  a  pool  amid  a  storm  of  rain, 
And  we  the  air  bladders  that  course  up  and  down, 
And  joust  and  tilt  in  merry  tournament  ; 
And  when  one  bubble  runs  foul  of  another 
The  weaker  needs  must  break. 

Alv,  I  see  thy  heart  I 

There  is  a  frightful  glitter  in  thine  eye 
"Which  doth  betray  thee.     Inly-tortured  man. 
This  is  the  revelry  of  a  drunken  anguish. 
Which  fain  would  scoff  away  the  pang  of  guilt. 
And  quell  each  human  feeling. 

Ord.  Feeling  I  feeling! 

The  death  of  a  man — the  breaking  of  a  bubble— 
'Tis  true  I  can  not  sob  for  such  misfortunes  ; 
But  faintness,  cold  and  hunger — curses  on  me 

REMOBSE.  897 

it*  willingly  I  e'er  inflicted  them  ! 

Jutne,  take  the  beverage  ;  this  chill  place  demands  it. 

Ordonio  i^offert  ilne  ^Met^ 

Alv,  Yon  insect  on  the  wall, 
vViiioh  moves  this  way  and  that  its  hundred  limbs, 
Were  it  a  toy  of  mere  mechanic  crail, 
ft  were  an  infinitely  curious  thing  I 
But  it  has  life,  Ordonio  !  li.'o  !  enjoyment  ! 
A.ud  by  the  power  of  its  miraculous  will 
Wields  all  the  complex  movements  of  its  frame 
Unerringly  to  pleasurable  ends  ! 
Saw  I  that  insect  on  this  goblet's  brim 
I  would  remove  it  witb  an  anxious  pity  I 

Ord.   What  meanest  thou  ? 

Alv.  There's  poison  in  the  wine. 

Ord,  Thou  hast  guessed  right ;  there's  poison  in  the  wine 
There's  poison  in't — which  of  us  two  shall  drink  it  ? 
For  one  of  us  must  die  ! 

Alv.  Whom  dost  thou  think  me  ? 

Ord.  The  accomplice  and  sworn  friend  of  Isidore. 

Alv.  I  know  him  not. 

And  yet  methinks,  I  have  heard  the  name  but  lately. 
Means  he  the  husband  of  the  Moorish  woman  ? 
Isidore  ?  Isidore  ? 

Ord,  Good !  good !  that  lie  !  by  heaven  it  has  restored  me. 
Now  I  am  thy  master  I     Villain  !  thou  shalt  drink  it, 
Or  die  a  bitterer  death. 

Alv.  What  strange  solution 

Hast  thou  found  out  to  satisfy  thy  fears, 
And  drug  them  to  unnatural  sleep  ? 

\Alvar  takes  the  gMet,  a?id  throws  it  to  the  ground 

My  master ! 

Ord.  Thou  mountebank  ! 

Mv.  Mountebank  and  villain ! 

What  then  art  thou  ?     For  shame,  put  up  thy  sword  ! 
What  boots  a  weapon  in  a  withered  arm  ? 
I  fix  mine  eye  upon  tiiee.  and  thou  trcmblest ! 
I  speak,  and  fear  and  wonder  crush  thy  rage. 
And  turn  it  to  a  motionless  distraction! 
Thou  blind  self-worshiper  1  thy  pride,  thy  cunning 

898  REMORSE. 

Thy  faith  in  univenal  villany, 

Thy  shallow  sophisms,  thy  pretended  scorn 

For  all  thy  human  brethren — out  upon  them  I 

What  have  they  done  for  thee  ?  have  they  given  thee  peaoe  I 

Cured  thee  of  starting  in  thy  sleep  1  or  made 

The  darkness  pleasant  when  thou  wak'st  at  midnight  ? 

Alt  happy  when  alone  ?     Canst  walk  by  thyself 

With  even  step  and  quiet  cheerfulness  ? 

Yet,  yet  thou  raay'st  be  saved 

Ord.  Saved  ?  saved  ? 

Alv.  One  pang  I 

Could  I  call  up  one  pang  of  true  remorse  ! 

Ord.  He  told  me  of  the  babes  that  prattled  to  him, 
His  fatherless  little  ones  !  remorse  !  remorse  ! 
Where  got'st  thou  that  fool's  word  %     Curse  on  remorse  I 
Can  it  give  up  the  dead,  or  recompact 
A  mangled  body  ?  mangled — dashed  to  atoms ! 
Not  all  the  blessings  of  a  host  of  angels 
Can  blow  away  a  desolate  widow's  curse  I 
And  the'  thou  spill  thy  heart's  blood  ibr  atonement, 
It  will  not  weigh  against  an  orphan's  tear  I 

Alv.  But  Alvar 

OnL  Ha  I  it  chokes  thee  in  the  throat 

Even  thee  ;  and  yet  I  pray  thee  speak  it  out. 
Still  Alvar  I — Alvar — howl  it  in  mine  ear  ! 
Heap  it  like  coals  of  fire  upon  my  heart, 
And  shoot  it  hissing  through  my  brain  I 

Alv.  Alas  I 

That  day  wheiv  thou  didst  leap  from  ofi'  the  rock 
Into  the  waves,  and  grasp  thy  sinking  brother. 
And  bore  him  to  the  strand  ;  then,  son  of  Valdez, 
How  sweet  and  musical  the  name  of  Alvar  I 
Then,  then,  Ordonio,  he  was  dear  to  thee. 
And  thou  wert  dear  to  him  I     Heaven  only  knows 
How  very  dear  thou  wert  I     Why  didst  thou  hate  him; 
0  heaven  !  how  he  would  fall  upon  thy  neck 
And  weep  forgiveness  ! 

Ord.  Spirit  of  the  dead  ! 

Methinks  I  know  thee  !  ha !  my  brain  turns  wild 
At  its  own  dreams! — ofT— off,  fantastic  shadow! 

REMORSE.  899 

Ah.  I  fain  would  tell  thee  what  I  am,  but  dare  not  I 

Grd.  Cheat !  villain  I  traitor  I  whatsoever  thou  be — 
I  fear  thee,  man  ! 

Ter.  (rushing  out  and  falling  on  Alvars  neck )  Ordonio  !• 
'tis  thy  brother. 

[Ordonio  runs  upon  Alvar  vrith  his  stvord.      Teresa 
flings  herself  on  Ordonio  and  arrests  his  arm. 

Stop,  madman,  stop ! 

Alv    Does  then  this  thin  dis^ise  impenetrably 
Hide  Alvar  from  thee  ?     Toil  and  painful  wounds 
And  long  imprisonment  in  unwholesome  dungeons. 
Have  marred  perhaps  all  trait  and  lineament 
Of  what  I  was !     But  chiefly,  chiefly,  brother, 
My  anguish  for  thy  guilt ! 

Ordonio — ^brother  I 
Nay,  nay,  thou  shalt  embrace  me. 

Ord.  {drawing  back  and  gazing  at  Alvar.)  Touch  me  not. 
Touch  not  pollution,  Alvar  !  I  will  die. 

[lie  attempts  to  fall  on  his  sivord,  Alvar  and  Teresa  pre 
vent  him. 

Alv.  "VVe  will  find  means  to  save  your  honor.     Live, 
Oh  live,  Ordonio  !  for  our  father's  sake  ! 
Spare  his  gray  hairs  ! 

Ter.  And  you  may  yet  be  happy  ! 

Ord.  0  horror !  not  a  thousand  years  in  heaven 
Could  recompose  this  miserable  heart. 
Or  make  it  capable  of  one  brief  joy  ! 
Live !  live  !     Why  yes !     Twere  well  to  live  with  you  : 
For  is  it  fit  a  villain  should  be  proud  ? 

My  brother  I  I  will  kneel  to  you,  my  brother !  [kneeling 

Forgive  me,  Alvar ! — Curse  me  with  forgiveness ! 

Alv.  Call  back  thy  soul,  Ordonio,  and  look  around  thee  1 
Now  is  the  time  for  greatness  !     Think  that  heaven — 

Ter.  0  mark  his  eye !  he  hears  not  what  you  say. 

Ord.  Yes,  mark  his  eye  !  there's  fascination  in  it ! 
Thou  saidst  thou  didst  not  know  him — That  is  he ! 
He  comes  upon  me  ! 

Alv.  Heal,  0  heal  him,  heaven  ! 

Ord.  Nearer  and  nearer !  and  I  can  not  stir  ! 
Will  no  one  hear  these  stifled  groans,  and  wake  me  ? 

400  RRMORSS. 

He  would  have  died  to  save  me,  and  I  killed  him-- 
A  husband  and  a  father  ! — 

'Ter.  Some  secret  poisoa 

Drinks  up  his  spirits  ! 

Ord.  Let  the  eternal  justice 

Prepare  my  punishment  in  the  obscure  worlds 
I  will  not  bear  to  live — to  live — 0  agony  I 
A.nd  be  myself  alone  my  own  sore  torment ! 

{the  doors  of  the  dungeon  are  broken  open,  and  in  rush 
Alluidra^  and  the  band  of  Morescoes, 

Alh,  Seize  first  that  man  ! 

[Alvar  presses  ontoard  to  defend  Ordonio. 

Ord.  Off,  ruffians  !     I  have  ilnng  away  my  sword. 
Woman,  my  life  is  thine  !  to  thee  1  give  it ! 
OH*!  he  that  touches  me  with  his  hand  of  fiesh, 
ril  rend  his  limbs  asunder  I     I  have  strength 
With  this  bare  arm  to  scatter  you  like  ashes. 

Alh.  My  husband — 

Ord.  Yes,  I  murdered  him  most  foully. 

Alv.  and  Ter.  0  horrible  I 

Alh.  Why  didst  thou  leave  his  children  ? 

Demon,  thou  should'st  have  sent  thy  dogs  of  hell 
To  lap  their  blood.     Then,  then  I  might  have  hardened 
My  soul  in  miser}',  and  have  had  comfort. 
I  would  have  stood  far  ofi',  quiet  though  dark, 
And  bade  the  race  of  men  raise  up  a  mourning 
For  a  deep  horror  of  desolation, 
Too  great  to  be  one  soul's  particular  lot  I 
Brother  of  Zagri  I  let  me  lean  upon  thee. 
The  time  is  not  vet  come  for  woman's  an<ruish, 
I  have  not  seen  his  blood — Within  an  hour 
Those  little  ones  will  crowd  around  and  ask  me, 
Where  is  our  father  ?     I  shall  curse  thee  then  \ 
Wert  thou  in  heaven,  my  curse  would  pluck  thee  thence ! 

Ter.  He  doth  repent  I     See,  see,  I  kneel  to  thee  ! 
0  let  him  live  !     That  aged  man  his  father 

Alh.  Why  had  he  such  a  son  ? 

[Sfiouts  from  (he  distance  of.  Rescue  !  Rescue!  Alvar ^ 
Alvar  I  a?id  the  voice  of  Valdez  heard. 
Rescue  ? — and  Isidore's  spirit  unavenged  ? — 

REMOBSE.  401 

The  deed  be  mino  !  [suddenly  stabs  Ordonio, 

Now  take  my  life  I 
Ord.  (staggering  from  the  wound.)  Atonement! 
Alv.  {while  with  Teresa  supporting  Ordonio,)  Arm  of  avcng* 
ing  Heaven, 
Thou  hast  snatched  from  me  my  most  cherished  hope — 
But  go  !  my  word  was  pledged  to  thee. 

Ord,  Away  I 

llrave  not  my  father's  rage  !     I  thank  thee  !     Thou — 

[then  turning  his  eyes  languidly  to  Alvar 
She  hath  avenged  the  blood  of  Isidore ! 
I  stood  in  silence  like  a  slave  beibre  her 
That  I  might  taste  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
And  satiate  this  self-accusing  heart 
With  bitterer  agonies  than  death  can  give. 
Forgive  me,  Alvar! 

Oh  I — couldst  thou  forget  me  I  [Dies 

[Alvar  and  Teresa  bend  over  tha  body  of  Ordonio, 
Alh.  {to  the  Moars.)  I  thank  thee,  Heaven  I  thou  hast  ordained 
it  wisely, 
That  still  extremes  bring  their  own  cure.     That  point 
In  misery,  which  makes  the  oppressed  man 
Regardless  of  his  own  life,  makes  him  too 
Lord  of  the  oppressor's — Knew  I  a  hundred  men 
Despairing,  but  not  palsied  by  despair. 
This  arm  should  shake  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  ; 
The  deep  foundations  of  iniquity 
Should  sink  away,  earth  groaning  from  beneath  them  : 
The  strongholds  of  the  cruel  men  should  fall. 
Their  temples  and  their  mountainous  towers  should  fall  ; 
Till  desolation  seemed  a  beautiful  thing. 
And  all  that  were  and  had  the  spirit  of  life, 
Sang  a  new  song  to  her  who  had  gone  forth. 
Conquering  and  still  to  conquer  ! 

[Alhadra  hurries  off  with  tJie  Moors  ;  the  stage  fills  witn 
armed  peasants^  and  serva?its,  Zulimez  and  Valdez 
at  their  head.     Valdez  ruslies  into  Alvar's  arms- 
Alv.  Turn  not  thy  face  that  way,  my  father !  hide, 
Oh  hide  it  from  his  eye  !     Oh  let  thy  joy 


Thb  follow  iDg  Scene,  as  unfit  for  the  stage,  was  taken  from  the  tragcdj 
II  the  year  1^797,  and  published  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads. 

Enter  Terena  and  Sdma, 

Ter,  Tis  said,  he  spake  of  you  faiuiliurly, 
As  mine  and  Alvar's  common  foster-mother. 

Sel.  Now  blessings  on  the  man,  whoever  he  be 
That  joined  your  names  with  mine  I    O  my  sweet  Liuly, 
As  often  as  I  think  of  those  dear  times, 
When  you  two  little  ones  would  stand,  at  eve, 
On  each  side  of  my  chair,  and  make  me  learn 
All  you  had  learnt  in  the  day ;  and  how  to  talk 

In  gentle  phrase ;  then  bid  me  sing  to  you 

Tis  more  like  heaven  to  come,  than  what  has  been  I 

Ter.  But  that  entrance,  Selma  t 

Sel.  Can  no  one  hear  t    It  is  a  perilous  tale  I 

Ter,  No  one. 

Sel.  My  husband's  father  told  it  me, 

Poor  old  Sesina — angels  rest  his  soul  *, 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  and  saw 
With  lusty  arm.     You  know  that  huge  round  beam 
Which  props  the  hanging  wall  of  the  old  chapel  f 
Beneath  that  tree,  while  yet  it  was  a  tree, 
lie  found  a  baby  wrapt  in  mosses,  lined 
With  thistle-beards,  and  such  small  locks  of  wool 
As  hang  on  brambles.    Well,  he  brcvght  him  home. 
And  reared  him  at  the  then  liord  Valdes*  cost. 
And  so  the  liabe  grew  up  a  pretty  boy, 
A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteacluiblc — 
And  never  learn'd  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead. 
But  knew  the  names  of  birds,  and  mocked  their  noteii 
And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himselt 
And  all  the  autumn  'twas  his  only  phiy 
To  gather  seeds  of  wild  flowers,  and  to  phmt  them 
With  earth  and  water  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 
A  Friar,  who  gathcretl  simples  in  the  wood. 
A  gray-haired  man,  he  loved  this  little  boy : 
The  boy  loved  him,  and  when  the  friar  taught  biu. 


He  soon  could  write  with  the  peo;  and  from  that  Ibm 

lived  chiefly  at  the  cooveDt  or  the  castle. 

Sd  he  became  a  rare  and  learned  youth: 

Bat  O I  poor  wretch !  he  read,  and  read,  and  rea4 

Till  his  brain  turned ;  and  ere  his  twentieth  year 

Ue  had  unlawful  thoughts  of  many  thinga : 

And  though  he  prayed,  he  never  loTcd  to  pray 

With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  plaoei 

But  yet  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweety 

The  late  Lord  Valdei  ne*er  was  wearied  with  him. 

And  ooce,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  diapd 

They  stood  together  chained  in  deep  disoonrae, 

The  earth  heaved  under  them  with  sudi  a  groan. 

That  the  wall  tottered,  and  had  well  nigh  fidlen 

Right  on  their  heads.    My  Lord  was  sorely  frighisoad; 

A  fever  seised  him,  and  he  made  coofessioa 

Of  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 

Which  brought  this  judgment ;  so  the  youth  wai 

And  cast  into  that  hole.    My  husband's  lather 

Sobbed  like  a  child — it  almost  broke  his  heart: 

And  ouce  ns  he  was  working  near  this  dungeon. 

He  heard  a  voice  distioctly ;  'twas  the  youth's. 

Who  sung  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields, 

How  sweet  it  were  on  hik<»  or  wide  savanna 

To  huut  for  food,  and  be  a  nuked  man. 

And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty. 

He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  and  now 

His  love  grew  desperate ;  and  defying  death, 

He  made  that  cunning  entrance  I  described. 

And  the  young  man  escaped. 

Ter.  Tis  a  sweet  tale : 

Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  cliild  to  sleep, 
His  rosy  face  besoiled  with  un wiped  tears. 
And  what  became  of  him  ? 

Sel.  He  went  on  shipboard 

With  those  bold  voyagers  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lartds.    Sesina's  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  returned  to  Spain, 
He  told  Sesina,  tliat  the  poor  mad  youth. 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world, 
In  spite  of  his  dissuasion,  seized  a  boat. 
And  all  alone  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 
Up  a  g^eat  river,  great  as  any  sea, 
And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more :  but  'tis  supposed 
Ue  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 


Sole  to  the  wordt  '*  You  ore  a  paiuter,"  p.  860,  Soene  iL,  Act  il 
The  following  lines  I  haTe  preserved  in  tliis  .place,  not  so  much  as  ezplaO' 
atory  of  the  picture  ot  the  assassination,  as  to  gratify  my  own  feelings, 
the  passage  being  no  mere  fancy  portrait ;  but  a  slight,  yet  not  unfaithful, 
profile  of  the  late  Sir  George  Beaumont. 

Zul.  (speaking  of  Alvar  in  the  third  pertan.)  Such  was  the  noble  Spao- 
iard  8  own  relation. 
He  told  me,  too,  how  in  his  eai'ly  youth, 
And  his  first  travels,  'twas  his  choice  or  chance 
To  make  long  sojourn  in  sea-wedded  Venice ; 
There  won  the  loto  of  that  divine  old  man, 
G>urted  by  mightiest  kings,  the  famous  Titian  1 
Who,  like  a  second  and  more  lovely  Nature, 
By  the  sweet  mystery  of  lines  and  colors 
Changed  the  blank  canvass  to  a  magic  mirror, 
That  made  the  absent  present ;  and  to  shadows 
Gave  light,  depth,  substance,  bloom,  yea,  thought  and  motioo. 
lie  loved  the  old  man,  and  revered  his  art : 
And  though  of  neblest  birtli  and  ample  for  time, 
Tlie  young  enthusiast  thought  it  no  scorn 
But  an  inalienable  ornament. 
To  be  his  pupil,  and  with  filial  zeid 
By  practice  to  appropriate  the  sage  lessons 
Wliich  the  gay,  smiling  old  man  gladlj^  gave. 
The  art,  he  honored  thuf»,  requite<l  him  : 
And  in  the  following  and  calamitous  years 
Beguiled  the  hours  of  his  captivity. 

Alh,  And  then  he  framed  this  picture  ?  and  unaided 
By  arts  unlawful,  spell,  or  talisman  I 

Alv.  A  potent  spell,  a  mighty  talisman  ! 
The  imperishable  memory  of  the  dead. 
Sustained  by  love,  and  grief,  and  indignation  I 
So  vivid  were  the  forms  within  his  brain, 
His  very  eyes,  when  shut,  made  pictures  of  them  1 

»  .- 

Z  A  P  0  L  Y  A. 


Udp  mtpl  XP^  TOiavra  }Jyeiv  ;i;f i^M^of  h  up^, 

PART    I. 



ToB  form  of  the  following  dramatic  poem  is  in  humble  imitaikxi  of  the 
Winter's  Tale  of  Shakspeare,  except  that  I  have  called  the  first  part  a 
Prelade  instead  of  a  first  Act,  as  a  somewhat  nearer  resemWanee  to  the 
plan  of  the  ancients,  of  which  one  specimen  is  left  us  in  the  JEathjltan 
Trilogy  of  the  Aganiemnoo,  the  Orestes,  and  the  EumenideSb  Though  a 
matter  of  form  merely,  yet  two  playt»  oa  diBereDt  periods  of  the  same 
tale,  might  seem  less  bold,  than  an  interval  of  twenty  years  between  a  first 
and  secoud  act.  This  is,  however,  in  mere  obedience  to  custom.  Tbe  effect 
does  not,  in  reality,  at  all  depend  on  the  time  of  the  interval ;  but  on  a  very 
different  priuciple.  There  are  cases  in  which  an  interval  of  twenty  hours 
between  the  acts  would  have  a  worse  effect  (i.  e.  render  the  imoginatiim  leas 
disposed  to  take  the  position  required)  than  twenty  years  in  other  cases. 
For  the  rest,  I  shall  be  well  content  if  my  readers  will  take  it  up,  read  and 
iudge  it  as  a  Christmas  tale. 


Emerick,  Usurping  King  of  lilyria. 
Raab  KitTRiu,  an  Jllyrian  Chieftain, 
Casimib,  Son  q/'KiuraiLL 
Chef  Raoozzi,  a  Military  CommumdBf, 
Zapolya,  Queen  3/  llfyria. 


Scene  I. — Frunt  of  ilie  Palace  vnth  a  magnificent  Colonnaae 
On  otie  side  a  military  Gttard-Jiou&e,  SefUries  pacing  back 
tcard  and  forward  before  the  Palace. 

Chef  Ragozzij  at  the  door  of  the  Guard-liousej  as '  looking 
forwards  at  some  object  in  the  distance. 

C.  Rag.  My  eyes  deceive  me  not,  it  must  be  he, 
Who  but  our  chief,  my  more  than  father,  who 
But  Raab  Kiuprili  moves  with  such  a  gait  ? 
Lo !  e'en  this  eager  and  unwonted  haste 
But  agitates,  not  quells,  its  majesty. 
My  patron  !  iny  commander !  yes,  'tis  ho  I 
i^all  out  the  guards.     The  Lord  Kiuprili  comes. 

[Drums  beat,  ^c.  tJie  Guard  turns  out.     Enter  Raab 

R.  Kin.  (making  a  signal  to  stop  tJie  drums,  ^-c.)  Silence ! 
enough  !     This  is  no  time,  young  friend  ! 
For  ceremonious  dues.     The  summoning  drum, 
Th*  air  shattering  trumpet,  and  the  horseman's  clatter. 
Are  insults  to  a  dying  sovereign's  ear. 
Soldiers,  'tis  well  I  Retire !  your  General  greets  you. 
His  loyal  fellow- warriors.  [Guards  retire, 

C.  Rag.  Pardon  my  surprise. 

Thus  sudden  from  the  camp,  and  unattended  ! 
What  may  these  wonders  prophesy  ? 

R.  Kiu.  Tell  me  first, 

How  fares  the  king  ?  His  majesty  still  lives  ? 

C.  Rag.  We  know  no  otherwise  ;  but  Emerick's  friends 
(And  none  but  they  approach  him)  scoff  at  hope. 

R.  Kiu.  Ragozzi !  I  have  reared  thee  from  a  child, 
And  as  a  child  I  have  reared  thee.     Whence  this  air 
Of  mystery  ?  That  face  was  wont  to  open 

VOL.  vu.  S 


410  ZAPOLYA. 

Clear  as  the  morning  to  me,  showing  all  things. 
Hide  nothing  from  me. 

C.  Rag.  0  most  loved,  most  honored, 
The  mystery,  that  struggles  in  my  looks. 
Betrayed  my  whole  tale  to  thee,  if  it  told  thee 
That  I  am  ignorant ;  but  fear  the  worst. 
And  myster}'  is  contagious.     All  things  here 
\re  full  of  motion  :  and  }*et  all  is  silent : 
And  bad  men's  hopes  infect  the  good  w^ith  fears. 

R.  Kiu.  I  have  trembling  proof  within,  how  true  thou  speakeit 

C,  Rag'  That  the  prince  Emerick  feasts  the  soldiery. 
Gives  splendid  arms,  pays  the  commanders'  debts, 
And  (it  is  whispered)  by  sworn  promises 
Makes  himself  debtor — ^hearing  this,  thou  hast  heard 


But  what  my  lord  will  learn  too  soon  himself. 

R.  Kill.    Ha  I    well  then,  let   it  come  I     Worse  scarce  cai 
This  letter  written  by  the  trembling  hand 
Of  royal  Andreas  calls  me  from  the  camp 
To  his  immediate  presence.     It  appoints  me, 
The  (iueen,  and  Emerick,  guardians  of  the  realm, 
And  of  the  royal  infant.     Day  by  day, 
Robbed  of  Zapolya's  soothing  cares,  the  king 
Yearns  only  to  behold  one  precious  boon, 
And  with  his  life  breathe  forth  a  father's  blessing. 

C  Rag.  Remember  you,  my  lord  !  that  Hebrew  leech. 
Whose  face  so  much  distempered  you  ? 

R.  Kiu.  Barzoni  ? 

I  held  him  for  a  spy  ;  but  the  proof  failing 
(More  courteously,  I  own,  than  pleased  myself) 
I  sent  him  from  the  camp. 

C  Rag.  To  him,  in  chief, 

Prince  Emerick  trusts  his  royal  brother's  health. 

R.  Kiu.  Hide  nothing,  I  coiyure  you  !  What  of  him  ? 

C.  Rag.  With  pomp  of  words  beyond  a  soldier's  cunning, 
And  shrugs  and  wrinkled  brow,  he  smiles  and  whispers  I 
Talks  in  dark  words  of  women's  fancies  ;  hints 
That  'twere  a  useless  and  a  cruel  zeal 
To  rob  a  dying  man  of  any  hope, 

ZAPOLYA.  411 

However  vain,  that  soothes  him  :  and,  in  fine, 
Denies  all  chance  of  oflspring  from  the  dueeu. 

R,  Kill,  The  venomous  snake  !  My  heel  was  on  its  head 
And  (fool !)  I  did  not  crush  it ! 

C.  Rag,  Nay,  he  fears, 

Zapolya  will  not  long  survive  her  husband. 

R.  Kill.  Manifest  treason  !  Even  this  brief  delay 
Half  makes  me  an  accomplice  (If  he  live,) 

[7s  tnoving  toioards  the  palace. 
If  he  but  live  and  know  me,  all  may 

C.  Rag.  Halt !         [Slops  him. 

On  pain  of  death,  my  Lord !  am  I  commanded 
To  stop  all  ingress  to  the  palace. 

R.  Kiu,  Thou ! 

C.  Rag.  No  place,  no  name,  no  rank  excepted — 

IL  Kin.  Thou  ! 

C.  Rag.  This  life  of  mine,  0  take  it.  Lord  Kiuprili ! 
I  give  it  as  a  weapon  to  thy  hands, 
Mine  own  no  longer.     Guardian  of  Illyria, 
Useless  to  thee,  *tis  worthless  to  myself 
Thou  art  the  framer  of  my  nobler  being  ; 
Nor  does  there  live  one  virtue  in  my  soul, 
One  honorable  hope,  but  calls  thee  father. 
Yet  ere  thou  dost  resolve,  know  that  yon  palace 
Is  guanled  from  within,  that  each  access 
Is  thronged  by  armed  conspirators,  watched  by  ruffians 
Pampered  with  gifts,  and  hot  upon  the  spoil 
Which  that  false  promiser  still  trails  before  them 
I  ask  but  this  one  boon — reserve  my  life 
Till  I  can  lose  it  fur  the  realm  and  thee ! 

R.  Kin.  My  heart  is  rent  asunder.  0  my  country, 
0  fallen  Illyria,  stand  I  hero  spell-bound  ? 
Did  my  King  love  me  ?  Did  I  earn  liis  love  ? 
Have  we  embraced  as  brothers  would  embrace  ? 
Was  I  his  arm,  his  thunder-bolt  ?  And  now 
Must  I,  hag-ridden,  pant  as  in  a  dream  ? 
Or,  like  an  eagle,  whose  strong  wings  press  up 
Against  a  coiling  serpent's  folds,  can  I 
Strike  but  ibr  mockery,  and  with  restless  beak 
f Tore  my  own  breast  ?— Kagozzi   tliou  art  i'aithful  ? 

412  ZAPOLJA. 

C.  Rag.  Here  before  Heaven  I  dedicate  my  faith 
To  the  royal  line  of  Andreas. 

R.  Kiu,  Hark,  Ragozzi ! 

GuilC  is  a  timorous  thing  ere  perpetration  : 
Despair  alone  makes  wicked  men  be  bold. 
Come  thou  with  me  !     They  have  heard  my  voice  in  flight, 
Have  faced  round,  terror-struck,  and  feared  no  longer 
The  whistling  javelins  of  their  fell  pursuers. 
Ha  !  what  is  this  ? 

{Black  flag  displayed  from  the  totaer  of  the  Palace :  a 
death  bell  tolls,  (J-c. 
Vengeance  of  heaven  1  He  is  dead. 

C.  Rag.  At  length  then  His  announced.  Alas  *  I  fear. 
That  these  black  death  flags  are  but  treason's  signals. 

R.  Kiu.  A  prophecy  too  soon  fulfilled  I  See  yonder ! 

0  rank  and  ravenous  wolves  !  the  death  bell  echoes 
Still  in  the  doleful  air — and  see  I  they  come. 

C  Rag.  Precise  and  faithi'ul  in  their  viliany 
Even  to  the  moment,  that  the  master  traitor 
Had  pre-ordained  them. 

R.  Kiu.  Was  it  over-haste, 

Or  is  it  scorn,  that  in  this  race  of  treason 
Their  guilt  thus  drops  its  mask,  and  blazons  forth 
Their  infamous  plot  even  to  an  idiot's  sense. 

C.  Rag.  Doubtless  they  deem  Heaven  too  usurp'd  !  HeavenV 
Bought  like  themselves  I 

Being  equal  all  in  crime. 
Do  you  press  on,  ye  spotted  parricides  I 
For  the  one  sole  pre-eminence  yet  doubtful, 
The  prize  of  foremost  impudence  in  guilt  ? 

R.  Kiu.  The  bad  man's  cunning  sliil  prepares  the  way 
For  its  own  outwitting.  I  applaud,  Ragozzi  I 

Kagozzi,  I  applaud. 
In  thee,  the  virtuous  hope  that  dares  look  onward 
And  keeps  the  life-spark  warm  of  future  action 
Beneath  the  cloak  of  patient  sufferance. 
Act  and  appear,  as  time  and  prudence  prompt  thee  : 

1  shall  not  misconceive  the  part  thou  pi  ay  est. 
Mine  is  an  easier  part — to  brave  the  usurper. 

ZAPOLYA.  413 

[Enter  a  procession  of  Emerick's  adJiererUs,  nobleSt  chief- 
tains, a?id  soldiers,  wth  tnusic.     They  advance  totaard 
t  lie  front  of  the  stage.     Kiuprili  viakes  tJie  sigjialfor 
t/iem  to  stop. —  The  music  ceases. 
Leader  of  the  Procession.  The  Lord  Kiuprili! — Welcome  from 

the  camp. 
R.  Kill,  Grave  magistrates  and  chieflaiiis  of  Illyria, 

III  pood  time  come  ye  hither,  if  ye  come 

As  loyal  men  with  honorable  purpose 

To  mourn  what  can  alone  be  mourned ;  but  chiefly 

To  enforce  the  last  commands  of  royal  Andreas 

And  shield  the  dueen,  Zapolya  :  haply  making 

The  mother's  joy  light  up  the  widow's  tears. 

Leader.  Our  purpose  demands  speed.     Grace  our  procession ; 

A  warrior  best  will  greet  a  warlike  king. 

R.  Kill.  This  patent  written  by  your  lawful  king, 

(Ijo  !  his  own  seal  and  signature  attesting) 

Appoints  as  guardians  of  his  realm  and  ofispring, 

The  dueen,  and  the  Prince  Emerick,  and  myself. 

I  Voices  of  Live  King  Emerick  !  an  Emerick  !  an  Emerick  ! 

What  means  this  clamor  ?     Are  these  madmen's  voices  ? 

Or  is  some  knot  of  riotous  slanderers  leagued 

To  infamize  the  name  of  the  king's  brother 

With  a  lie  black  as  Hell  ?  unmanly  cruelty, 

Ingratitude,  and  most  unnatural  treason  ?  [murmurs. 

What  mean  these  murmurs  ?     Dare  then  any  here 

Proclaim  Prince  Emerick  a  spotted  traitor  ? 

One  that  has  taken  from  you  your  sworn  faith. 

And  given  you  in  return  a  Judas'  bribe 

Infamy  now,  oppression  in  reversion, 

And  heaven's  inevitable  curse  hereafter  ? 

[Loud  murmurs,  follotved  by  cries — Emerick!     No  Balni 
Prittcel     No  Changelings! 

Yet  bear  with  me  awhile  !     Have  I  for  this 

Bled  for  your  safety,  conquered  for  your  honor  I 

Was  it  for  this,  Illyrians !  that  I  forded 

Your  thaw-swoln  torrents,  when  the  shouldering  ice 

Fought  with  the  foe,  and  stained  its  jagged  points 

With  gore  frr>m  wounds,  I  felt  not  ?     Did  tho  blast 

Beat  on  this  body,  frostpand-famine-numbet^ 

414  ZAPOLTA. 

Till  my  hard  flesh  distinguished  not  itself 

From  the  insensate  mail,  its  follow- warrior  ? 

And  have  I  brought  home  with  mc  Victory, 

And  with  her,  hand  in  hand,  firm-footed  Peace, 

Her  countenance  twice  lighted  up  with  glory, 

As  if  I  had  charmed  a  goddess  down  from  Heaven  ?   « 

But  these  will  flee  abhorrent  from  the  throne 

Of  usurpation ! 

[Murmurs  increase — and  cries  of  ontcardf  onward! 
Have  you  then  thrown  oflT  shame, 
And  shall  not  a  dear  friend,  a  loyal  subject, 
Throw  off*  all  fear  ?     I  tell  ye,  the  fair  trophies 
Valiantly  wrested  from  a  valiant  foe, 
Love's  natural  oflerings  to  a  rightful  king, 
Will  hang  as  ill  on  this  usurping  traitor. 
This  brother-blight,  this  Emerick,  as  robes 
Of  gold  plucked  from  the  images  of  gods 
Upon  a  sacrilegious  robber's  back. 

Enter  Lord  Casimir. 

Cas.  Who  is  this  factious  insolent,  that  dares  brand 
The  elected  King,  our  chosen  Emerick  ? 
My  father ! 

R.  Kin.     Casimir  I     He,  he  a  traitor ! 
Too  soon,  indeed,  Ragozzi !  have  I  learnt  it.  \aside, 

Cas.     My  father  and  my  lord  I 

R.  Kill.  I  know  thee  not  I 

Ijcader.  Yet  the  remembrancing  did  sound  right  filial. 

R.  Kiu.  A  holy  name  and  words  of  natural  duty 
Are  blasted  by  a  thankless  traitor's  utterance. 

Cas.  0  hear  me,  Sire !  not  lightly  have  I  sworn 
Homage  to  Emerick.     Illyria's  sceptre 
Demands  a  manly  hand,  a  warrior's  grasp. 
The  queen  Zapolya's  self-expected  ofi'spring 
At  least  is  doubtful :  and  of  all  our  nobles, 
The  king  inheriting  his  brother's  heart. 
Hath  honored  us  the  most.     Your  rank,  my  lord ' 
Already  eminent,  is — all  it  can  be — 
Confirmed  :  and  me  the  king's  grace  hath  appointed 
Chief  of  his  council  and  the  lord  high  steward. 

R.  Kiu.  (Bought  by  a  bribe  !)     I  know  thee  now  still  \i 

ZAPOLYA.  415 

Cas.  So  much  of  Raab  Kiuprili's  blood  flows  here, 
That  no  power,  save  that  holy  name  of  father, 
Could  shield  the  man  who  so  dishonored  me. 

R.  Kiu.  The  son  of  Raab  Kiuprili  a  bought  bond-slaTe 
'Juilt's  pander,  treason's  mouth-piece,  a  gay  parrot, 
SoBoord  to  shrill  forth  his  feeder's  usurp'd  titles. 
And  scream.  Long  live  king  Emerick  ! 

Leaders.  Aye,  king  Emerick  ! 

Stand  back,  my  lord  !     Lead  us,  or  let  us  pass. 

Soldier.  Nay,  let  the  general  speak  ! 

Soldiers.  Hear  him  !  hear  him  ! 

R.  Kiu.  Hear  me, 

Assembled  lords  and  warriors  of  Illyria, 
Hear  and  avenge  me !     Twice  ten  years  have  I 
Stood  in  your  presence,  honored  by  the  king ; 
Beloved  and  trusted.     Is  there  one  among  you 
Accuses  Raab  Kiuprili  of  a  bribe  ? 
Or  one  false  whisper  in  his  sovereign's  ear  ? 
Who  her^  dares  charge  me  with  an  orphan's  rights 
Outfaced,  or  widow's  plea  lefl  midefended  ? 
And  shall  I  now  be  branded  by  a  traitor, 
A  bought,  bribed  wretch,  who,  being  called  my  son. 
Doth  libel  a  chaste  matron's  name,  and  plant 
Hcnsbane  and  aconite  on  a  mother's  grave  ? 
The  underling  accomplice  of  a  robber, 
That  from  a  widow  and  a  widow's  offspring 
Would  steal  their  heritage  ?     To  God  a  rebel. 
And  to  the  common  father  of  his  country 
A  recreant  ingrate  ! 

Cas.  Sire  I  your  words  grow  dangerous. 

High-flown  romantic  fancies  ill-beseem 
Your  age  and  wisdom.     'Tis  a  statesman's  virtue, 
To  guard  his  country's  safety  by  what  means 
It  best  may  be  protected— come  what  will 
Of  these  monk's  morals ! 

R.  Kiu.  {aside.)  Ha  !  the  elder  Brutus 

Made  his  soul  iron,  though  his  sons  repented, 
They  boasted  not  their  baseness.  [draws  kis  stvord 

Infamous  changeling ; 
Rocant  this  instant,  and  swear  loyalty, 

416  ZAPOLYA. 

And  strict  obedience  to  thy  sovereign's  will , 
Or,  by  the  spirit  of  departed  Andreas, 

Thou  diest 

[Chiefs,  Sfc,  rush  to  interpose;  during  tJie  tumuli, 
Enierick,  alarmed* 

Erne.  Call  out  the  guard  !  Ragozzi !  seize  the  assassin. 

Kiuprili  ?     Ha  ! 

{making  signs  to  tlie  guard  to  retire 
Pass  on,  friends !  to  the  palace. 
\Music  recommences. —  Tlie  Procession  passes  into  the 

Erne.  What  ?  Raab  Kiuprili !     What !  a  father's  sword 
Against  his  own  son's  breast  ? 

R.  Kiu.  'Twould  best  excuse  him, 

Were  he  thy  son,  Prince  Emerick.     I  abjure  him. 

Eme.  This  is  my  thanks,  then,  that  I  have  commenced 
A  reign  to  which  the  free  voice  of  the  nobles 
Hath  called  me,  and  the  people,  by  regards 
or  love  and  prace  to  Raab  Kiuprili's  house  ? 

R.  Kill.  V>  iiat  rijrhthadst  thou,  Prince  Emerick,  to  bestow  them7 

Eme.  By  what  right  dares  Kiuprili  question  me  ? 

R.  Kill.  By  a  right  common  to  all  loyal  subjects — 
To  me  a  duty !     As  the  realm's  co-regent 
Appointed  by  our  sovereign's  last  free  act, 
Writ  by  himself — {Gras^pina;  the  Patent.) 

Eme.     Ay  I — Writ  in  a  delirium  ! 

R.  Kill.  I  likewise  ask,  by  M'hose  authority 
The  access  to  the  sovereign  was  refused  me  ? 

Eme.  By  whose  authority  dared  the  general  leave 
His  camp  and  army,  like  a  fugitive  ? 

R.  Kiu.  A  fugitive,  who,  with  victory  for  his  comrade, 
llan,  open-eyed,  upon  the  face  of  death  I 
A  fugitive,  with  no  other  fear,  than  bodemenls 
To  be  belated  in  a  loyal  purpose — 
At  the  command,  Prince  I  of  my  king  and  thine. 
Hither  1  came  :  and  now  again  require 
Audience  of  Q,Uf;en  Zapolya  ;  and  (the  States 
Forthwith  convened)  that  thou  dost  show  at  large. 
On  what  ground  of  defect  thou'st  dared  annul 
This  thy  King's  last  and  solemn  ac\ — \v«i^\.  d«L\^ 

ZAPOLYA.  417 

Ascend  the  throne,  of  which  the  law  had  named, 
And  conscience  should  have  made  thee  a  protector. 

Erne,  A  sovereign's  ear  ill  brooks  a  subject's  questioning  I 
Yet  for  thy  past  well-doing — and  because 
'Tis  hard  to  erase  at  once  the  fond  belief 
Long  cherished,  that  Illyria  had  in  thee 
No  dreaming  priest's  slave,  but  a  Roman  lover 
Of  her  true  weal  and  freedom — and  for  this,  too. 
That,  hoping  to  call  forth  to  the  broad  daylight 
And  fostering  breeze  of  glory  all  deservings, 
I  still  had  placed  thee  foremost. 

R.  Kiu.  Prince !  T  listen. 

Erne.  Unwillingly  I  tell  thee,  that  Zapolya, 
Maddened  with  grief,  her  erring  hopes  proved  idle — 

Ca$.  Sire  I  speak  the  whole  truth  I     Say,  her  fraud  detected! 

Erne.  According  to  the  sworn  attests  in  council 
Of  her  physician — 

R.  Kiu.  {aside.)  Yes  I  the  Jew,  Barzoni ! 

Emc.  Under  the  imminent  risk  of  death  she  lies, 
Or  irrecoverable  loss  of  reason. 
If  known  friend's  face  or  voice  renew  the  frenzy. 

Cas.  (to  Kiuprili.)  Trust  me,  my  lord  I  a  woman's  trick  hat 
duped  you — 
Us  too — but  most  of  all,  the  sainted  Andreas. 
Even  for  his  own  fair  fame,  his  grace  prays  hourly 
For  her  recovery,  that  (the  states  convened) 
She  may  take  counsel  of  her  friends. 

Enie.  Right,  Casimir  ! 

Receive  my  pledge,  lord  general.     It  shall  stand 
In  her  own  will  to  appear  and  voice  her  claims  ; 
Or  (which  in  truth  I  hold  the  wiser  course) 
With  all  the  j)a8t  passed  by,  as  family  quarrels, 
liCt  the  Clueen  Dowager,  with  unblenched  honors, 
Resume  her  state,  our  first  Illyrian  matron. 

R.  Kiu.  Prince  Emerick  !  you  speak  fairly,  and  your  pledge 
Is  such,  as  well  would  suit  an  honest  meaning. 

Cas.  My  lord  !  you  scarce  know  half  his  grace's  goodness. 
The  wealthy  heiress,  high-born  fair  Sarolta, 
Bred  in  the  convent  of  our  noble  1adie«, 

418  ZAPOLYA. 

Her  relative,  the  venerable  abbess, 

Hath,  at  his  grace's  urgence,  wooed  and  won  for  me. 

Erne.  Long  may  the  race,  and  long  may  that  name  flourish, 
Which  your  heroic  deeds,  brave  chief,  have  rendered 
Dear  and  illustrious  to  all  true  Illyrians. 

R.  Kiu.  The  longest  line  that  ever  tracing  herald 
Or  found  or  feigned,  placed  by  a  beggar's  soul, 
Hath  but  a  mushroom's  date  in  the  comparison : 
And  with  the  soul,  the  conscience  is  coeval, 
Yea,  the  soul's  essence. 

Erne.  Conscience,  good  my  lord, 

Is  but  the  pulse  of  reason.     Is  it  conscience. 
That  a  free  nation  should  be  handed  down. 
Like  the  dull  clods  beneath  our  feet,  by  chance 
And  the  blind  law  of  lineage  ?     That  whether  infant. 
Or  man  matured,  a  wise  man  or  an  idiot. 
Hero  or  natural  coward,  shall  have  guidance 
Of  a  free  people's  destiny,  should  fall  out 
In  the  mere  lottery  of  a  reckless  nature. 
Where  few  the  prizes  and  the  blanks  are  countless  ? 
Or  haply  that  a  nation's  fate  should  hang 
On  the  bald  accident  of  a  midwife's  handling 
The  unclosed  sutures  of  an  infant's  skull  ? 

Cas.  What  better  claim  can  sovereign  wish  or  need. 
Than  the  iVee  voice  of  men  who  love  their  country  ? 
Those  chiefly  who  have  fought  for't  ?     Who  by  right, 
Claim  for  their  monarch  one,  who  having  obeyed, 
So  hath  best  learnt  to  govern  ;  who  having  suflered. 
Can  feel  for  each  brave  suflerer  and  reward  him  ? 
Whence  sprang  the  name  of  Emperor  ?     Was  it  not 
By  nature's  fiat  ?     In  the  storm  of  triumph, 
'Mid  warriors'  shouts,  did  her  oracular  voice 
Make  itself  heard  :  L#et  the  commanding  spirit 
Possess  the  station  of  command  I 

R.  Kiu.  Prince  Emerick, 

Your  cause  will  prosper  best  in  your  own  pleading. 

Erne,  (aside  to  Casimir.)  Ragozzi  was  thy  school-mate— a 
bold  spirit ! 
Bind  him  to  us  I — Thy  father  thaws  apace  ! 

^tKeiv  GjUmd 

ZAPOLYA.  419 

Leave  us  awhile,  my  lord  ! — ^Your  friend,  Ragozzi, 
Whom  you  have  not  yet  seen  since  his  return, 
Commands  the  guard  to-day. 

[  Casimir  retires  to  the  Guard-house  ;  and  after  a  time 
appears  before  it  tvith  Chef  Ragozzi. 

We  are  alone. 
What  further  pledge  or  proof  desires  Kiuprili  ? 
Then,  with  your  assent 

R.  Kiu.  Mistake  not  for  assent 

The  unquiet  silence  of  a  stern  resolve 

Throttling  the  impatient  voice.     I  have  heard  thee,  Prince  I 
And  I  have  watched  thee,  too ;  hut  have  small  faith  in 
A  plausible  tale  told  with  a  Hitting  eye. 

[JSmerick  turns  as  about  to  call  for  the  Guard. 
In  the  next  moment  I  am  in  thy  power, 
hi  this  thou  art  in  mine.     Stir  but  a  step, 
Or  make  one  sign — I  swear  by  this  good  sword. 
Thou  diest  that  instant. 

Erne.  Ha,  ha ! — ^Well,  Sir  I — Conclude  your  homily. 

R.  Kiu.  A  tale  which,  whether  true  or  false,  comes  guarded 
Against  all  means  of  proof,  detects  itself 
The  dueen  mew'd  up — this  too  from  anxious  care 
And  love  brought  forth  of  a  sudden,  a  twin  birth 
With  thy  discovery  of  her  plot  to  rob  thee 
Of  a  rightful  throne  I — Mark  how  the  scorpion,  falsehood. 
Coils  round  in  its  own  perplexity,  and  fixes 
Its  sting  in  its  own  head  ! 

Erne.  Ay  !  to  the  mark ! 

R.  Kiu.    Hadst  thou   believed  thine  own  tale,  hadst  thov 
Thyself  the  righful  successor  of  Andreas, 
Wouldst  thou  have  pilfered  from  our  school-boys'  themes 
These  shallow  sophisms  of  a  popular  choice  ? 
What  people?  How  convened  ?  or,  if  convened, 
Must  not  the  magic  power  that  charms  together 
Millions  of  men  in  council,  needs  have  power 
To  win  or  wield  them  ?  Better,  0  far  better 
Shout  forth  thy  titles  to  yon  circling  mountains, 
And  with  a  thousand-fold  reverberation 
Make  the  rocks  ilatler  thee,  and  the  vo\\eY\T^f^  ^vc« 

420  ZAPOLYA. 

Unbribed,  shout  back  to  thee,  King  Emerick  ! 

By  wholesome  laws  to  embank  the  sovereign  power. 

To  deepen  by  restraint,  and  by  prevention 

Of  lawless  will  to  amass  and  guide  the  flood 

In  its  majestic  channel,  is  man's  task 

And  the  true  patriot's  glory  !     In  all  else 

Men  safclier  trust  to  Heaven,  than  to  themselves 

V\rhen  least  themselves  in  the  mad  whirl  of  crowds 

Where  folly  is  contagious,  and  too  oil 

Even  wise  men  leave  their  better  sense  at  home 

To  chide  and  wonder  at  them  when  returned. 

Erne.  Is't  thus,  thou  scoff'st  the  people  ?  most  oi  aiU 
The  soldiers,  the  defenders  of  the  people  ? 

R.  Kill.  0  most  of  all,  most  miserable  nation. 
For  whom  the  imperial  power,  enormous  bubble ! 
Is  blown  and  kept  alofl,  or  burst  and  shattered 
By  the  bribed  breath  of  a  lewd  soldiery ! 
Chiefly  of  such,  as  from  the  frontiers  far, 
(Which  is  the  noblest  station  of  true  warriors) 
In  rank  licentious  idleness  beleaguer 
City  and  Court,  a  vcnom'd  thorn  i'  the  side 
Of  virtuous  kings,  the  tyrant's  slave  and  tyrant. 
Still  ravening  for  fresh  largess  !  But  with  such 
What  title  claim'st  thou,  save  thy  birth  ?    What  menti 
W^hich  many  a  liegeman  may  not  plead  as  well, 
Brave  though  I  grant  thee  ?     If  a  life  outlabored 
Head,  heart,  and  fortunate  arm,  in  watch  and  war 
For  the  land's  fame  and  weal ;  if  large  acquests, 
Made  honest  by  the  aggression  of  the  foe. 
And  whose  best  praise  is,  that  they  bring  us  safety  ; 
If  victor}^  doubly- wreathed,  whose  under-garland 
Of  laurel-leaves  looks  greener  and  more  sparkling 
Thro'  the  gray  olive-branch  ;  if  these,  Prince  Emerick  ! 
Give  the  true  title  to  the  throne,  not  thou — 
No  I  (let  Illyria,  let  the  infidel  enemy 
Be  judge  and  arbiter  between  us  I)  I, 
I  were  the  rightful  sovereign  I 

JSnie.  I  have  faith 

That  thou  both  think'st  and  hop'st  it.     Fair  Zapolya, 
A  provident  lady — 

ZAPOLYA.  421 

R.  Kiu.  Wretch  beneath  all  answer  I 

Etne.  Offers  at  once  the  royal  bed  and  throne. 
R.  Kiu,     To  be  a  kingdom's  bulwark,  a  king's  glory, 
Yet  loved  by  both,  and  trusted,  and  trust-worthy, 
Is  more  than  to  be  king ;  but  sec  !  thy  rage 
Fights  with  thy  fear.     I  will  relieve  thee  !  Ho  ! 

[to  the  Guard. 
Erne.  Not  for  thy  sword,  but  to  entrap  thee,  rufRan  ! 
Tims  long  I  have  listened — Guard — ho  !  from  the  palace. 

[The    Guard-post  from   tlie  Guard-house  with  CheJ 
Ragozzi  at  tJieir  head,  and  then  a  number  from  thi 
Palace — Chef  Ragozzi  demaiids  KiupriWs  sicora 
ami  appreliends  him. 
Cas.  0  agony  I  {to  Emerick.)  Sire,  hear  me  ! 

[to  Kiuprili,  tclio  turns  from  him 

Hear  me,  father ! 
Erne.  Take  in  arrest  that  traitor  and  assassin ! 
Who  pleads  for  his  life,  strikes  at  mine,  his  sovereign's. 

R.  Kiu.  As  the  Co-regent  of  the  realm,  I  stand 
Amenable  to  none  save  to  the  States 
Met  in  due  course  of  law.     But  ye  are  bond-slaves, 
Yet  witness  ye  that  before  God  and  man 
I  here  impeach  Lord  Emerick  of  foul  treason, 
And  on  strong  grounds  attaint  him  with  suspicion 
Of  murder — 

Erne.  Hence  with  the  madman  I 

R.  Kiu.  Your  dueen's  murder, 

The  royal  orphan's  murder  :  and  to  the  death 
Defy  him,  as  a  tyrant  and  usurper. 

[hurried  off  by  Ragozzi  and  tlie  Guard, 
Erne.  Ere  twice  the  sun  hath  risen,  by  my  sceptre 
This  insolence  shall  be  avenged. 

Cas.  0  banish  him. 

This  infamy  will  crush  me.     0  for  my  sake, 
Banish  him,  my  liege  lord  ! 

Erne.  What  ?  to  the  army  ? 

Be  calm,  young  friend !     Naught  shall  bo  done  in  anger. 
The  child  o'erpowers  the  man.     In  this  emergence 
I  must  take  council  for  us  both      Retire. 

\Exit  Caitmvr 

422  ZAPOLYA. 

Erne,  {alone,  looks  at  a  CeUendar.)  The  changefbl  plaiM^ 
now  in  her  decay, 
Dips  down  at  midnight,  to  he  seen  no  more. 
With  her  shall  sink  the  enemies  of  Emerick, 
Cursed  hy  the  last  look  of  the  waning  moon  : 
And  my  hright  destiny,  with  sharpened  horns, 
8haL  greet  me  fearless  in  the  new-born  crescent.  YExU. 

Scene  duinges  to  the  back  of  tlie  Palace — a  tooodcd  park  and 


Enter  Zapolya,  tcith  an  infant  in  arms. 
Zap.  Hush,  dear  one !  hush !    My  trembling  arm  disturbs  thee ! 

Thou,  the  protector  of  the  helpless  I  thou, 

The  widow's  husband  and  the  orphan's  father, 

Direct  my  steps  !     Ah  whither  ?     0  send  down 

Thy  angel  to  a  houseless  babe  and  mother. 

Driven  forth  into  the  cruel  wilderness  I 

Hush,  sweet  one  I     Thou  art  no  Hagar's  ofispring  :  Thou  art 

The  rightful  heir  of  an  anointed  king  ! 

What  sounds  are  those  ?     It  is  the  vesper  chant 

Of  laboring  men  returning  to  their  home ! 

Their  queen  has  no  home  I     Hear  me,  heavenly  Father ! 

And  let  this  darkness 

Be  as  the  shadow  of  thy  outspread  wings 

To  hide  and  shield  us !     Start'st  thou  in  thy  slumbers  ? 

Thou  canst  not  dream  of  savage  Emerick.     Hush  I 

Betray  not  thy  poor  mother  I     For  if  they  seize  thee 

I  shall  grow  mad  indeed,  and  they'll  believe 

Thy  wicked  uncle's  lie.     Ha  !  what  ?     A  soldier  ? 

Enter  Chef  Ra ^oz  z i. 
C.  Rag.  Sure  heaven  befriends  us.    Well  I  he  hath  escaped  I 

0  rare  tune  of  a  tyrant's  promises 

That  can  enchant  the  serpent  treacher}' 

From  forth  its  lurking  hole  in  the  heart.     "  Ragozzi  I 

0  brave  Ragozzi !     Count  I     Commander  I    What  not  ?** 

And  all  this  too  for  nothing!  a  poor  nothing ! 

Merely  to  play  the  underling  in  the  murder 

Of  my  best  friend  Kiuprili !    His  own  son — monstrous  I 

Tyrant  I  I  owe  thee  thanks,  and  in  good  hour 

Will  I  repay  thee,  for  that  thou  thought' «^t  rae  loo 

ZAPOLTA.  423 

A  serviceable  villain.     Could  I  now 

But  gain  some  sure  intelligence  of  the  queen  : 

Heaven  bless  and  guard  her ! 

Zrty?.  (coming  fortcard.)  Art  thou  not  Ragozzi  ? 

C.  Rag.  The  Q,ueen  !     Now  then  the  miracle  is  full  I 
I  see  heaven's  wisdom  is  an  over-match 
For  the  devil's  cunning.     This  way,  madam,  haste  ! 

Zap.  Stay  I     Oh,  no !     Furi^ive  me  if  I  wrong  thee  I 
This  is  thy  sovereign's  child  :  Oh,  pity  us, 
And  be  not  treacherous !  [kneeling. 

C.  Rag.  {raising  Jicr.)  Madam  !    For  mercy's  sake  I 

Zap.  But  tyrants  have  a  hundred  eyes  and  arms  ! 

C.  Rag.  Take  courage,  madam  I     'Twere  too  horrible, 
(I  can  not  do't)  to  swear  I'm  not  a  monster! — 
Scarce  had  I  barr'd  the  door  on  Kaab  Kiuprili 

Zap.  Kiuprili  I    How  ? 

C  Rag.                            There  is  not  time  to  tell  it, — 
The  tyrant  called  me  to  him,  praised  my  zeal 
(And  be  assured  I  overtopt  his  cunning 
And  seemed  right  zealous.)     But  time  wastes  :  In  fine, 
Bids  me  despatch  my  trustiest  friends,  as  couriers 
With  letters  to  the  army.     The  thought  at  once 
Flashed  on  me.     I  disguised  my  prisoner 

Zap.  What !  Raab  Kiuprili  ? 

C.  Rag.                                    Yes  !  my  noble  general. 
I  sent  him  off,  with  Emcrick's  own  packet. 
Haste,  and  post  haste — Prepared  to  follow  him 

Z,ap.  Ah,  how?    Is  it  joy  or  fear?    My  limbs  seem  sinking!— 

C.  Rag.  (supporting  fier.)  Heaven  still  befriends  us.    1  havn 
left  my  charger, 
A  gentle  beast  and  fleet,  and  my  boy's  mule. 
One  that  can  shoot  a  precipice  like  a  bird, 
Just  where  the  wood  begins  to  climb  the  mountains. 
The  course  we'll  thread  will  mock  the  tyrant's  guesses, 
Or  scare  the  followers.     Ere  we  reach  the  main  road 
The  Lord  Kiuprili  will  have  sent  a  troop 
To  escort  me.     Oh,  thrice  happy  when  ho  finda 
The  treasure  which  I  convoy  I 

Zap.  One  brief  moment. 

That  praying  for  strenirth  I  may  have  ftlTenglYi.    TVv\%\^iXM% 

424  ZAPOLTA. 

Heaven's  eye  is  on  it,  and  its  innocence 

Is,  as  a  prophet's  prayer,  strong  and  prevailing ! 

Through  thee,  dear  babe,  the  inspiring  thought  posBesaed  me, 

When  the  loud  clamor  rose,  and  all  the  palace 

Emptied  itself — (They  sought  my  life,  Ragozzi !) 

Like  a  swill  shadow  gliding,  I  made  way 

To  the  deserted  chamber  of  my  lord. —       [then  to  the  infant. 

And  thou  didst  kiss  thy  father's  lifeless  lips, 

And  in  thy  helpless  hand,  sweet  slumberer  ! 

Still  clasp'st  the  signet  of  thy  royalty. 

As  I  removed  the  seal,  the  heavy  arm 

Dropt  from  the  couch  aslant,  and  the  stifi"  finger 

Seemed  pointing  at  my  feet.     Provident  Heaven  ! 

Lo,  I  was  standing  on  the  secret  door, 

Which,  through  a  long  descent  where  all  sound  perishcb, 

Led  out  beyond  the  palace.     Well  I  knew  it 

But  Andreas  framed  it  not !     He  was  no  tyrant ! 

C  Hug.  Haste,  madam  I     Let  me  take  this  precious  burden  I 

[he  kneels  as  fie  takes  ttie  child. 

Zap.  Take  him  !     And  if  we  be  pursued,  I  charge  thee, 
Flee  thou  and  leave  me  !     Flee  and  save  thy  king  I 

\the7i  as  going  off^  sJie  looks  back  on  the  palace 
Thou  tyrant's  den,  be  called  no  more  a  palace  I 
The  orphan's  angel  at  the  throne  of  heaven 
Stands  up  against  thee,  and  there  hover  o'er  thee 
A  Q,ueen's,  a  Mother's,  and  a  Widow's  curse. 
Henceforth  a  dragon's  haunt,  iear  and  suspicion 
Stand  sentry  at  thy  portals  I     Faith  and  honor. 
Driven  from  the  throne,  shall  leave  the  attainted  nation  : 
And,  for  the  iniquity  that  houses  in  thee. 
False  glory,  thirst  of  blood,  and  lust  of  rapine, 
(Fateful  conjunction  of  malignant  planets) 
Sliall  shoot  their  blastments  on  the  land.     The  fathers 
Henceforth  shall  have  no  joy  in  their  young  men, 
And  when  they  cry  :  Lo !  a  male  child  is  born  I 
The  mother  shall  make  answer  with  a  groar. 
For  bloody  usurpation,  like  a  vulture. 
Shall  clog  its  beak  within  lUyria's  heart. 
Remorseless  slaves  of  a  remorseless  tyrant, 
They  shall  be  mocked  with  sounds  of  liberty . 



And  liberty  shall  be  proclairaed  alono 

To  thee,  0  Fire  !  0  Pestilence  !  0  sword  I 

Till  Vengeance  hath  her  fill. — And  thou,  snatched  hence, 

Poor  friendless  fugitive  I  with  mother's  wailing, 

Ollppring  of  royal  Andreas,  shall  return 

With  trump  and  timbrel  clang,  and  popular  shout 

In  triumph  to  the  palace  of  thy  fathers !  [Exeunt 

^-   "rnT^J 


Z  A  P  0  L  Y  Aj 




Old  Bathort,  a  Mountaineer. 

Bethlen  Bathort,  Th€  ycung  Prince  Andreas,  9uppo9ed  mm  of  Old  Batbobt 

Lord  Rcdolpo,  a  Courtisr,  but  friend  to  the  Queen*9  party. 

Laska,  Steward  to  C.iSiMiK,  betrothed  to  Glycine.  . 

Pestalutz,  an  Afsaasin,  in  Kmlrick's  employ. 

ItADT  Sabolta,  Wt/e  of  Lord  Casimir. 

Glycine,  Orphan  Daut^hter  of  Qoev  Ragozzi. 

Between  the  flight  of  the  Queen,  and  the  civil  war  which  immediately  fa'Iowed, 
and  in  which  Einerick  remained  the  victor,  a  space  of  twenty  years  is  sup' 
posed  to  have  elapsed. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — A  Mountainous  country.     Batlwrtjs  dwelling  at  the 

end  of  tlie  stage. 

Enter  Lady  Sarolta  and  Glycine. 

Gly.  Well  then  !  our  round  of  charity  is  finished. 
Rest,  Madam  !     You  breathe  quick. 

Sar    What,  tired,  Glycine  ? 
No  delicate  court-dame,  but  a  mountaineer 
By  choice  no  less  than  birth,  I  gladly  use 
The  good  strength  nature  gave  inc. 

Gly.  That  last  cottage 

Is  bui]t  as  if  an  eagle  or  a  raven 
Had  chosen  it  for  her  nest. 

Sar,  So  many  are 

The  sufferings  which  no  human  aid  can  reach. 
It  needs  must  be  a  duly  doubly  sweet 
To  heal  the  few  we  can.     Well  I  let  us  rest. 

Gly.  There  ?  [Pointing  to  Bathory's  dicdliny* 

Sar.  Here  I     For  on  this  spot  Lord  Casimir 
Took  his  last  leave.     On  yonder  mountain-ridge 
I  lost  the  misty  image  which  so  long 
Lingered,  or  seemed  at  least  to  linger  on  it. 

Gly.  And  what  if  even  now,  on  that  same  ridge, 
A  speck  should  rise,  and  still  enlarging,  lengthening, 
As  it  clomb  downwards,  shape  itself  at  last 
To  a  numerous  cavalcade,  and  spurring  foremost, 
Who  but  Sarolta*8  own  dear  lord  returned 
From  his  high  embassy  ? 

Sar.  Thou  hast  hit  m^  l\vougVi\.\ 

430  ZAPOLYA. 

All  the  long  day,  from  yester-mom  to  evening. 
The  restless  hope  fluttered  about  my  heart. 
Oh  we  are  querulous  creatures !     Little  less 
Than  all  things  can  suffice  to  make  us  happy ;    • 
And  little  more  than  nothing  is  enough 
To  discontent  us. — ^Were  he  come,  then  should  1 
Repine  he  had  not  arrived  just  one  day  earlier 
To  keep  his  birth-day  here,  in  his  own  birth-place. 

Gly.  But  our  best  sports  belike,  and  gay  processions 
"Would  to  my  lord  have  seemed  but  work-day  sights 
Compared  with  those  the  royal  court  aflbrds. 

Sar,  I  have  small  wish  to  see  them.     A  spring  moming 
With  its  wild  gladsome  minstrelsy  of  birds, 
And  its  bright  jewelry  of  flowers  and  dew-drops 
(Each  orbed  drop  an  orb  of  glory  in  it) 
Would  put  them  all  in  eclipse.     This  sweet  retirement 
Lord  Casimir's  wish  alone  would  have  made  sacred  : 
But  in  good  truth,  his  loving  jealousy 
Did  but  command,  what  I  had  else  entreated. 

Gly.  And  yet  had  I  been  born  Lady  Sarolta, 
Been  wedded  to  the  noblest  of  the  realm, 
So  beautiful  besides,  and  yet  so  stately 

Sar.  Hush  I  innocent  flatterer  I 

Gly.  Nay  I  to  my  poor  fancy 

The  royal  court  would  seem  an  earthly  heaven, 
Made  for  such  stars  to  shine  in,  and  be  gracious. 

Sar.  So  doth  the  ignorant  distance  still  delude  us ! 
Thy  fancied  heaven,  dear  girl,  like  that  above  the<5, 
In  its  mere  self  a  cold,  drear,  colorless  void, 
Seen  from  below  and  in  the  large,  becomes 
The  bright  blue  ether,  and  the  seat  of  gods  I 
Well  I  but  this  broil  that  scared  you  from  the  dance  ? 
And  was  not  Laska  there  :  he,  your  betrothed  ? 

Gly.  Yes,  madam  I  he  was  there.     So  was  the  maypole. 
For  we  danced  round  it. 

Sar.  Ah,  Glycine  !  why, 

Why  did  you  then  betroth  yourself? 

Gly.  Because 

My  ovra  dear  lady  wished  it  I  *twas  you  asked  me ! 

Sar.  Yei«.  at  my  lord's  request,  but  never  wished. 

ZAPOLYA.  431 

My  poor  aflectionate  girl,  to  see  thee  wretched. 
Thou  k newest  not  yet  the  duties  of  a  wife. 

Gly.  Oh,  yes  I     It  is  a  wife's  chief  duty,  madam  ! 
To  stand  in  awe  of  her  hushand,  and  ohey  him, 
And,  I  am  sure,  I  never  shall  see  Laska 
But  I  shall  tremble. 

Sar.  Not  with  fear,  1  think, 

For  you  still  mock  him.     Bring  a  seat  from  the  cottage. 

[Exit  Glycine  into  the  cottage,  Sarolta  continues  her  speech 
looking  after  Jier. 
Something  above  thy  rank  there  hangs  about  thee, 
And  in  thy  countenance,  thy  voice,  and  motion, 
Yea,  e*en  in  thy  simplicity,  Glycine, 
A  fuie  and  feminine  grace,  that  makes  me  feci 
More  as  a  mother  than  a  mistress  to  thee ! 
Thou  art  a  soldier's  orphan  !  that — the  courage, 
Which  rising  in  thine  eye,  seems  oft  to  give 
A  new  soul  to  its  gentleness,  doth  prove  thee  ! 
Thou  art  sprung  too  of  no  ignoble  blood. 
Or  there's  no  faith  in  instinct ! 

[angry  voices  aiul  danwr  within.     Re-enter  Glycine, 

Gly.  Oh,  madam  !  there's  a  party  of  your  servants, 
And  my  lord's  steward,  Laska,  at  their  head. 
Have  come  to  search  for  old  Bathory's  son, 
Bethlen,  that  brave  young  man  !  'twas  he,  my  lady, 
That  took  our  parts,  and  beat  off  the  intruders, 
And  in  mere  spite  and  malice,  now  they  charge  him 
With  bad  words  of  Lord  Casimir  and  the  king. 
Pray  don't  believe  them,  madam  I     This  way  I     This  way  ! 
Iiady  Sarolta's  here —  [calling  taithouC 

Sar.  Be  calm,  Glycine. 

Enter  Laska  and  Servants  tcith  Old  Batlwry. 

Las.  (to  Bathory.)  We  have  no  concern  with  you!    What 
needs  your  presence  ? 

O.  Bath.  What !     Do  you  think  I'll  suflcr  my  bravo  boy 
To  be  slandered  by  a  set  of  coward  ruffians, 
And  leave  it  to  their  malice, — ^yes,  mere  malice ! — 
To  tell  its  own  tale  ? 

[  Laska  and  servants  bow  to  Lady  Sarolta, 

Sar.  Laska  !     What  may  lVv\&  tae^XL^ 

432  ZAPOLYA. 

Las,  Madam !  and  may  it  please  your  ladyship  * 
This  old  man's  son,  by  name  Bethlen  Bathoiy, 
Stands  charged,  on  weighty  evidence,  that  he, 
On  yester-eve,  being  his  lordship's  birth-day, 
Did  traitorously  defame  Lord  Casimir : 
The  lord  high  steward  of  the  realm,  moreover—— 

Sar.  Be  brief !     We  know  his  titles  I 

Las  And  moreover 

Raved  like  a  traitor  at  our  liege  King  Emerick. 
And  furthermore,  said  witnesses  make  oath. 
Led  on  the  assault  upon  his  lordship's  servants ; 
Yea,  insolently  tore,  from  this,  your  huntsman. 
His  badge  of  livery  of  your  noble  house. 
And  trampled  it  in  scorn. 

Sar.  {to  the  servants  who  offer  to  speak.)    You  have  ha. 
your  spokesman ! 
Where  is  the  young  man  thus  accused  ? 

O.  Bat.  I  know  not : 

Bnt  if  no  ill  betide  him  on  the  mountains. 
He  will  not  long  be  absent  I 

Sar.  Thou  art  his  father  ? 

O.  Bat.  None  ever  with  more  reason  prized  a  son  ; 
Yet  I  hate  falsehood  more  than  I  love  him. 
But  more  than  one,  now  in  my  lady's  presence, 
Witnessed  the  afiVay,  besides  these  men  of  malice. 
And  if  I  swerve  from  truth 

Gbj.  Yes  I  good  old  man  I 

My  lady  !  pray  believe  him  I 

Sar.  Hush,  Glycine ! 

Be  silent,  [  command  you.  \tlien  to  Bathory, 

Speak  !  we  hear  you  ! 

O.  Bat.  My  tale  is  brief     During  our  festive  dance, 
Y'our  servants,  the  accusers  of  my  son, 
Offered  gross  insults,  in  unmanly  sort, 
To  our  village  maidens.     He,  (could  he  do  less  ?) 
Rose  in  defence  of  outraged  modesty  > 
And  so  persuasive  did  his  cudgel  prove, 
(Your  hectoring  sparks  so  over  brave  to  women 
Are  always  cowards)  that  they  soon  took  flight, 
And  now  in  mere  revenge,  like  baCRed  boasters. 

ZAPOLYA.  483 

Have  framed  this  tale,  out  of  some  hasty  words 
Which  their  own  threats  provoked. 

Sfir.  Old  man  !  you  talk 

Too  bluntly  !     Did  your  son  owe  no  respect 
To  the  livery  of  our  house  ? 

O.  J3at,  Even  such  respect 

As  the  sheep's  skin  should  gain  for  the  hot  wolf 
That  hath  begun  to  worry  the  poor  lambs ! 

Las.  Old  insolent  ruffian  ! 

Gil/.  Pardon  !  pardon,  madam  ! 

I  ifaw  the  whole  alTray.     The  gpod  old  man 
Means  no  offence,  sweet  lady  ! — You,  yourw^lf, 
Laska !  know  well,  that  these  men  were  tlie  ruffians ! 
Shame  on  you ! 

Sar.  "What  I  Glycine  ?     Go,  retire ! 

[Exit  Glycine. 
Be  it  then  that  these  men  faulted.     Yci  yourself. 
Or  better  still  beUke  the  maidens'  parents. 
Might  have  complained  to  us.     Was  ever  access 
Denied  you  ?     Or  free  audience  ?     Or  are  we 
W^eak  and  unfit  to  punish  our  own  servants  ? 

O.  Bat.  So  then  !  So  then  I  Heaven  grant  an  old  man  patience  I 
And  must  the  gardener  leave  his  seedling  plants. 
Leave  his  young  roses  to  the  rooting  swine 
While  he  goes  ask  their  mftster,  if  perchance 
His  leisure  serve  to  scourge  them  from  their  ravage  ? 

Las.  Ho  !    Take  the  rude  clown  from  your  lady's  presence  I 
I  will  report  her  further  will ! 

Sar.  "Wait  then, 

Till  thou  hast  learnt  it !     Fervent  good  old  man ! 
Forgive  me  that,  to  try  thee,  I  put  on 
A  face  of  sternness,  alien  to  my  meaning  ! 

[tJien  speaks  to  tlie  servanU. 
Hence  !  leave  my  presence  !  and  you,  Laska  !  mark  me  !  , 

Those  rioters  are  no  longer  of  my  household  ! 
If  we  but  shake  a  dew-drop  from  a  rose. 
In  vain  would  we  replace  it,  and  as  vainly 
Restore  the  tear  of  wounded  modesty 
To  a  maiden's  eye  fumilifirized  to  license. — 
But  theie  mea,  Laaka — 
wwt.  TO  T 


La$.  (aside.)  Yes,  now  'tis  cc»iiing. 

Sar.  Brutal  aggressors  first,  then  baffled  <^»«*^wi^ 
That  they  have  sought  to  piece  out  their  revenge 
With  a  tale  of  words  lured  from  the  lips  of  anger. 
Stamps  them  most  dangerous  :  and  till  I  want 
Fit  means  for  wicked  ends,  we  shall  not  need 
Their  services.     Discharge  them  !     You,  Bathory  ! 
A  re  henceforth  of  my  household  !     I  shall  place  you 
Near  my  own  person.     When  your  son  returns, 
Present  him  to  us  ! 

O.  Bat.  Ha !  what  strangers  here  ! 
*What  business  have  they  in  an  old  man's  eye  ? 
Your  goodness,  lady — and  it  came  so  sudden — 
I  can  not — must  not — let  you  be  deceived. 
I  have  yet  another  tale,  but  [tken  to  Sarolta  aside 

not  for  all  ears  ! 

Sar.  I  oft  have  passed  your  cottage,  and  still  praised 
Its  beauty,  and  that  trim  orchard-plot,  whose  blossoms 
The  gusts  of  April  showered  aslant  its  thatch. 
Come  !  you  shall  show  it  rae  !     And,  while  you  bid  it 
Farewell,  be  not  ashamed  that  I  should  witness 
The  oil  of  gladness  glittering  on  the  water 
Of  an  ebbing  grief 

[Bathory  shows  her  i?Uo  his  cottagf^ 

Las,  (alone.)  Vexation!  balHed  !  school'd  ! 

Ho  1  Laska  !  M-ake !  why  ?  what  can  all  this  mean  ? 
She  sent  away  that  cockatrice  in  anger ! 
Oh  the  false  witch  !     It  is  too  plain,  she  loves  him. 
And  now,  the  old  man  near  my  lady's  person, 
She'll  see  this  Bethlen  hourly  ! 

[Laskajlings  himself  i?ito  tlie  seat.     Glycine  peeps  in. 

Gly.  Laska !  Laska ! 

Is  my  lady  gone  ? 

Zms.  Gone. 

Gly.  Have  you  yet  seen  him  ? 

Is  he  returned  ?  [Laska  starts  up. 

Has  the  seat  stung  you,  Laska  ? 

Las.  No,  serpent  I  no  ;  *tis  you  that  sting  me  ;  you ! 
What  ?  you  would  cling  to  him  again  ! 

*  Tbii  lloe  was  borrowed  micon^cio^i&lY  from  the  lilxearaioD. 

ZAPOLYA.  435 

Gly,  Whom  ? 

Las  Bethlen!  Bethlcni 

Yes  ;  gaze  as  if  your  very  eyes  embraced  him ! 
Ha  !  you  forget  the  scene  of  yesterday  ! 
Mute  ere  he  came,  but  then — Out  on  your  screams, 
And  your  pretended  fears  ! 

Gly.  Your  fears,  at  least, 

Were  real,  Laska  !  or  your  trembling  limbs 
And  white  cheeks  played  the  hypocrites  most  vilely ! 

Las.  I  fear  !  whom  ?     What  ? 

Gly.  I  know,  what  I  should  fear. 

Were  I  in  Laska's  place. 

Las.  What  ? 

Gly.  My  own  conscience, 

For  having  fed  my  jealousy  and  envy 
With  a  plot,  made  out  of  other  men's  revenges, 
Against  a  brave  and  innocent  young  man's  life  I 
Yet,  yet,  pray  tell  me  ! 

Las.  You  will  know  too  soon. 

Gly.  Would  I  could  find  my  lady  !  though  she  chid  me^ 
Yet  this  suspense —  \yoin^» 

Las.  Stop  !  stop !  one  question  only — 

I  am  quite  calm — 

Gly.  Ay,  as  the  old  song  says. 

Calm  as  a  tiger,  valiant  as  a  dove. 
Nay  now,  I  have  marred  the  verse  :  well !  this  one  question^- 

Las.  Are  you  not  bound  to  me  by  your  own  promise  ? 
And  is  it  not  as  plain — 

Gly,  Halt !  that^s  two  questions. 

Las.  Pshaw  !     Is  it  not  as  plain  as  impudence 
That  you're  in  love  with  this  young  swaggering  beggar, 
Bethlen  Bathory  ?     When  lie  was  accused. 
Why  pressed  you  for\v'ard  ?     Wliy  did  you  defend  him  ? 

Gly.  Q^uestion  meet  question  :  that's  a  woman's  privilege. 
Why,  Laska,  did  you  urge  Lord  Casimir 
To  make  my  lady  force  that  promise  from  me  ? 

Las,  So  then,  you  say.  Lady  Sarolta  forced  you  ? 

Gly.  Could  I  look  up  to  her  dear  countenance, 
And  say  her  nay  ?     As  far  back  as  I  wot  of 
All  her  commands  were  gracious,  sweet  TequeftU. 

436  ZAPOLYA. 

How  could  it  be  then,  but  that  her  requests 
Must  needs  have  sounded  to  me  as  commands  ? 
And  as  for  love,  had  I  a  score  of  loves, 
I'd  keep  them  all  for  my  dear,  kind,  good  mistress. 

Las.  Not  one  for  Bethlen  ? 

Gly.  Oh  !  that's  a  different  thing. 

To  be  sure  he's  bravo,  and  handsome,  and  so  pious 
lo  his  good  old  father.     But  for  loving  him — 
Nay,  there,  indeed  you  are  mistaken,  Laska ! 
Poor  youth  I  I  rather  think  I  grieve  for  him  ; 
For  I  sigh  so  deeply  when  I  think  of  him  ! 
And  if  I  see  him,  the  tears  come  in  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  beats  ;  and  all  because  I  dream'd 
That  the  war-wolf*  had  gored  him  as  he  hunted 
In  the  haunted  forest ! 

JLas.  You  dare  own  all  this  ? 

Your  lady  will  not  warrant  promise-breach. 
Mine,  pampered  Miss  !  you  shall  be  ;  and  I'll  make  you 
Grieve  for  him  with  a  vengeance.     Odd's,  my  fingers 
Tingle  already  I 

[makes  threatening  signs. 

Gly.  {aside.)  Ha !  Bethlen  coming  this  way  I 

[  Glycine  then  cries  out. 
Oh,  save  me  I  save  me  I  Pray  don't  kill  me,  Laska  ! 
Enter  Bethlen  in  a  Hunting  Dress. 

Bet.  What,  beat  a  woman  ! 

Las.  {to  Glycine.)  0  you  cockatrice  ! 

Bet.  Unmanly  dastard,  hold  ! 

Las.  Do  you  chance  to  know 

iVho— I— am,  Sir  ?— (S'death  !  how  black  he  looks !) 

Bet.  I  have  started  many  strange  beasts  in  my  time, 
But  none  less  like  a  man,  than  this  before  me. 
That  lifts  his  hand  against  a  timid  female. 

Las.  Bold  youth  I  she's  mine. 

Gly.  No,  not  my  master  yet. 

But  only  is  to  be  ;  and  all,  because 
Two  years  ago  my  lady  asked  me,  and 

♦  For  the  best  account  of  the  "War-wolf  or  LvcaotbropuB,  see  Draytoo  f 
Moon-calf,  Chalmers'  EugU&h  Po«t&,  vol.  iv.  ^.  la  «. 

ZAPOLYA.  437 

I  promised 'her,  not  him ;  and  if  she*!!  let  me, 
rU  hate  you,  my  lord's  steward. 

Bet.  Hush,  Glycine  I 

Ghj.  Yes,  I  do,  Bethlcn  ;  for  he  just  now  brought 
False  witnesses  to  swear  away  your  life : 
Your  lite,  and  old  Bathory's  too. 

Bet.  Bathory's  I 

Where  is  my  father  ?  Answer,  or Ha  I  gone  ! 

[L(iska  during  this  time  retires  from  tlie  Stage, 

Gbj.  Oh,  heed  not  him  !  I  saw  you  pressing  onward 
And  did  but  feign  alarm.     Dear  gallant  youth. 
It  is  your  life  they  seek  I 

Bet.  My  life  ? 

Glij.  Alas, 

Lady  Sarolta  even — 

Bet.  She  does  not  know  me  ! 

Gly,  Oh  that  she  did !  she  could  not  then  have  spoken 
With  such  stem  countenance.  But  though  she  spurn  me, 
I  will  kneel,  Bethlen — 

Bet.  Not  for  me,  Glycine  I 

What  have  I  done  ?  or  whom  have  I  offended  ? 

Gly.  Rash  words,  'tis  said,  and  treasonous  of  the  king. 

[Betlden  nutters  to  himsilf, 

Gly.  {aside.)  So  looks  the  statue,  in  our  hall,  o'  the  god 
The  shai't  just  flown  that  killed  the  serpent ! 

Bet.  King  I 

Gly.  Ah,  often  have  I  wished  you  were  a  king. 
You  would  protect  the  helpless  everywhere. 
As  you  did  us.     And  I,  too,  should  not  then 
Grieve  for  you,  Bethlen,  as  I  do  ;  nor  have 
The  tears  come  in  my  eyes  ;  nor  dream  bad  dreams 
That  you  were  killed  in  the  forest ;  and  then  Laska 
Would  have  no  right  to  rail  at  me,  nor  say 
(Yes,  the  base  man,  he  says,)  that  I — I  love  you. 

Bet.  Pretty  Glycine  !  wert  thou  not  betrothed— 
But  in  good  truth  I  know  not  what  I  speak. 
This  luckless  morning  I  have  been  so  haunted 
With  my  own  fancies,  starting  up  like  omens, 
That  I  feel  like  one,  who  waking  from  a  dream 
Both  aakB  and  answers  wildly. — ^But  Batboi^  1 

438  ZAPOLTA. 

Gly.  Hist !  'tis  my  lady's  step  !  She  must  not  see  yoo ! 

\Sethlen  retim 
Efitcr  from  the  Cottage  Sarolta  and  Bathory. 

Sar,  Go,  seek  your  son  !  I  need  not  add,  be  speedy — 
You  here,  Glycine  ?  [SxU  BcUkoty 

Gly,  Pardon,  pardon,  Madam ! 

[f  you  but  saw  the  old  man's  son,  you  would  not. 
You  could  not  have  him  harmed. 

Sar.  Be  calm,  Glycine  ! 

Oly,  No,  I  shall  break  my  heart. 

Sar.  Ha  1  is  it  so  ? 

0  strange  and  hidden  power  of  sympathy, 
That  of  like  fates,  though  all  unknown  to  each. 
Dost  make  blind  instincts,  orphan's  heart  to  orphan's 
Drawing  by  dim  disquiet  * 

Gly,  Old  Bathory— 

Sar.  Seeks  his  brave  son.     Come,  wipe  away  thy  tean. 
Yes,  in  good  truth,  Glycine,  this  same  Bethlen 
Seems  a  most  noble  and  deserving  youth. 

Gly.  My  lady  does  not  mock  me  I 

Sar.  Where  is  liaska  ? 

Has  he  not  told  thee  ? 

Gly.  Nothing.     In  his  fear — 

Anger,  I  mean — stole  off — I  am  so  fluttered — 
Left  me  abruptly — 

Sar.  His  shame  excuses  him  I 

He  is  somewhat  hardly  tasked  and  in  discharging 
His  own  tools,  cons  a  lesson  for  himself 
Bathory  and  the  youth  henceforward  live 
Safe  in  my  lord's  protection. 

Gly.  The  saints  bless  you  ! 

Shame  on  my  graceless  heart  I  How  dared  I  fear, 
Lady  Sarolta  could  be  cruel  ? 

Sar.  Come, 

Be  yourself,  girl  I 

Gly.  0,  'tis  so  full  here  ! 

And  now  it  can  not  harm  him  if  I  tell  you, 
That  the  old  man's  son — 

Sar.  Is  not  that  old  man's  son  ! 

A  destiny f  not  unlike  Dune  own,  \%\i\«. 

ZAPOLYA.  439 

For  all  I  know  of  thee  is,  that  thou  art 

A  sol(lier*8  orphan  :  left  when  rage  intestine 

Shook  and  engulphed  the  pillars  of  Illyria. 

This  other  fragment,  thrown  back  by  that  same  carthquakOi 

This,  so  mysteriously  inscribed  by  nature, 

Perchance  may  piece  out  and  interpret  thine. 

Command  thyself!  Be  secret !  His  true  father 

lleur'st  thou  ? 

Gly.  0  tell— 

Bet.  (rushing  out.)  Yes,  tell  me,  Sha})e  from  heaven  I 
Who  is  my  father  ? 

Sar.  {gazing  with  surprise.)  Thine  ?  Thy  father  ?  Rise  ' 

Gly.  Alas !  He  hath  alarmed  you,  my  dear  lady  I 

Sar.  His  countenance,  not  his  act! 

G/ij.  Rise,  Bethlen  !  Rise  ! 

Bet.  No  ;  kneel  thou  too !  and  with  thy  orphan's  tongua 
Plead  for  me  !  I  am  rooted  to  the  earth. 
And  have  no  power  to  rise  !  Give  me  a  father  I 
There  is  a  prayer  in  those  uplifted  eyes 
That  seeks  hicrh  Heaven  !  But  I  will  overtake  it, 
And  bring  it  back,  and  make  it  plead  for  me 
In  thine  own  heart  1  Speak  !  Speak  !  Restore  to  me 
A  name  in  the  world  ! 

Sar.  By  that  blest  Heaven  I  gazed  at 

I  know  not  who  thou  art.     And  if  I  knew, 
Dared  I — But  rise  I 

Bet.  Blest  spirits  of  my  parents, 

Ye  hover  o'er  me  now!  Ye  shine  upon  me  ! 
And  like  a  flower  that  coils  forth  from  a  ruin, 
I  feel  and  seek  the  light  I  can  not  see  I 

Sar.  Thou  seo'st  yon  dim  spot  on  the  mountain's  ridge, 
But  what  it  is  thou  know'st  not.     Even  such 
Is  all  I  know  of  thee — haply,  brave  youth, 
Is  all  Fate  makes  it  safe  for  thee  to  know  ! 

JJet.  Safe  ?  Safe  ?  0  let  mo  then  inherit  danger, 
And  it  shall  be  my  birth-right  I 

Sar.  (asifiti.)  That  look  again  I — 

The  wood  which  first  incloses,  and  then  skirts 
The  highest  track  that  leads  across  the  mountains— 
Tl)nii  knnw'st  it,  Bethien  ? 

440  ZAJ>OLYA. 

Bet.  Lady,  'twas  my  wont 

To  roam  there  in  my  childhood  ofl  alone 
And  mutter  to  myself  the  name  of  father. 
For  still  Bathory  (why,  till  now  I  guessed  not) 
Would  never  hear  it  from  my  lips,  but  sighing 
Ciazed  upward.     Yet  of  late  an  idle  terror- 

Oly,  Madam,  that  wood  is  haunted  by  the  war-wolvei 
Vampires,  and  monstrous 

Sar.  Moon-calves,  credulous  girl  * 

Haply  some  o'ergrown  savage  of  the  forest 
Hath  his  lair  there,  and  fear  hath  framed  the  rtrst. 
Afler  that  last  great  battle,  (0  young  man  * 
Thou  wak'st  anew  my  life's  sole  anguish)  that 
Which  fixed  Lord  Emerick  on  his  throne,  Bathory 
Led  by  a  cry,  far  inward  from  the  track. 
In  the  hollow  of  an  oak,  as  in  a  nest, 
Did  find  thee,  Bethlen,  then  a  helpless  babe. 
The  robe  that  wrapt  thee  was  a  widow's  mantle. 

Bel.  An  infant's  weakness  doth  relax  my  frame. 

0  say — I  fear  to  ask 

Sar.  And  I  to  tell  thee. 

Bet.  Strike  I  0  strike  quickly  !  See,  I  do  not  shrink 

1  am  stone,  cold  stunc. 

Sar.  Hid  in  a  brake  hard  by. 

Scarce  by  both  palms  snj)|)orted  from  the  earth, 
A  wounded  lady  lay,  wliose  life  fast  waning 
Seemed  to  survive  itself  in  her  llxt  eyes, 
That  strained  towards  the  babe.     At  length  one  arm 
Painfully  from  her  own  weight  disengaging, 
She  pointed  first  to  heaven,  then  from  her  bosom 
Drew  forth  a  golden  casket.     Thus  entreated 
Thy  foster-father  took  thee  in  his  arms. 
And  kneeling  spake  :  If  aught  of  this  world's  comfoit 
(Jan  reach  thy  heart,  receive  a  poor  man's  troth, 
That  at  my  life's  risk  I  will  save  thy  child  ! 
Her  countenance  worked,  as  one  that  seemed  preparing 
A  loud  voice,  but  it  died  upon  her  lips 
In  a  faint  whisper,  "  Fly  I  Save  him  !  Hide — hide  all  !'* 

Bet,  And  did  he  leave  her  ?     What,  had  I  a  mother  ' 
And  left  her  bleeding,  dying  1     Bow?r\vx  1  nA^  \\^^. 

ZAPOLYA.  441 

With  the  desertion  of  a  dying  mother  ? 

0  ajjony ! 

Gly,  Alas !  thou  art  bewildered, 
And  dost  forget  thou  wert  a  helpless  infant  1 

Bet.  What  else  can  I  remember,  but  a  mother 
Mangled  and  leil  to  perish  ? 

Sar.  Hush,  Glycine ! 

It  is  the  ground-swell  of  a  teeming  instinct : 
Lot  it  but  lift  itself  to  air  and  sunshine, 
And  it  will  find  a  mirror  in  the  waters 
It  now  makes  boil  above  it !     Check  him  not ! 

Bet.  0  that  I  were  diHused  among  the  waters 
That  pierce  into  the  secret  depths  of  earth, 
And  find  their  way  in  darkness  !     Would  that  I 
Could  spread  myself  upon  the  homeless  winds  ! 
And  I  would  seek  her !  for  she  is  not  dead  ! 
She  can  not  die  !  0  pardon,  gracious  lady  I 
You  were  about  to  say,  that  he  returned — 

Sar.  Deep  Love,  the  godlike  in  us,  still  bolierat 
Its  objects  as  immortal  as  itself! 

Bet.  And  found  her  still — 

tSar.  Alas  !  he  did  return, 

He  leil  no  spot  unsearched  in  all  the  forest, 
But  she  (I  trust  me  by  some  friendly  hand) 
Had  been  borne  ofl. 

Bet.  0  whither  ? 

Glij.  Dearest  Bethlen  1 

1  would  that  you  could  weep  like  me  !     0  do  not 
(iuze  so  upon  the  air  ! 

k^ar.  While  he  was  absent, 

A  friendly  troop,  'tis  certain,  scoured  the  wood. 
Hotly  pursued  indeed  by  Emerick. 

Bett  ^  Emerick ! 

Oh  Hell ! 

Gly      Bethlen ! 

Bet.  Hist !  I'll  curse  him  in  a  whisper  I 

This  gracious  lady  must  hear  blessings  only. 
She  hath  not  yet  the  glory  round  her  head. 
Nor  those  strong  eagle  wings,  which  make  swifl  way 


To  that  appointed  place,  which  I  must  seek ; 
Or  else  she  were  my  mother ! 

Sar.  Noble  youth  I 

From  me  fear  nothing  !     Long  time  have  I  owed 
Offerings  of  expiation  for  misdeeds 
Long  past  that  weigh  me  down,  though  innocent ! 
Thy  foster-father  hid  the  secret  from  thee, 
For  he  perceived  thy  thoughts  as  they  expanded, 
Proud,  restless,  and  ill-sorting  with  thy  state ! 
Vain  was  his  care  !     Thou'st  made  thyself  suspected 
E*en  where  suspicion  reigns,  and  asks  no  proof 
But  its  own  fears !     Great  Nature  hath  endowed  thee 
With  her  best  gifts  !     From  me  thou  shalt  receive 
All  honorable  aidance  !     But  haste  hence  ! 
Travel  will  ripen  thee,  and  enterprise 
Beseems  thy  years  !     Be  thou  henceibrth  my  soldier  ! 
And  whatsoe'er  betide  thee,  still  believe 
That  in  each  noble  deed,  achieved  or  suflered, 
Thou  sol  vest  best  the  riddle  of  thy  birth ! 
And  may  the  light  that  streams  from  thine  own  honor 
(xuide  thee  to  that  thou  seekest ! 

Gltj.  Must  he  leave  us  ? 

J3et.  And  for  such  goodness  can  I  return  nothing 
But  some  hot  tears  that  sting  mine  eyes?     Some  sighs 
That  if  not  breathed  would  swell  my  heart  to  stifling  ? 
May  heaven  and  thine  own  virtues,  high-born  lady, 
Be  as  a  shield  of  fire,  far,  far  aloof 
To  scare  all  evil  from  thee  I     Yet,  if  fate 
Hath  destined  thee  one  doubtful  hour  of  danger, 
From  the  uttermost  region  of  the  earth,  methinks. 
Swift  as  a  spirit  invoked,  I  should  be  with  thee  I 
And  then,  perchance,  I  might  have  power  to  unbosom 
These  thanks  that  struggle  here.     Eyes  fai^as  thine 
Have  gazed  on  ine  with  tears  of  love  and  anguish, 
Wliich  these  eyes  saw  not,  or  beheld  unconscious  ; 
And  tones  of  anxious  fondness,  passionate  prayers, 
Have  l»een  talked  to  me  I     But  this  tongue  ne'er  soothed 
A  mother's  ear,  lisping  a  mother's  name  ! 
0,  at  how  dear  a  price  have  I  been  loved 
And  DO  love  could  return  I    Oae  \>ootv  vVew,  X^iCi^j  \ 

ZAPOLYA.  443 

Where'er  thou  bidd*st,  I  go  thy  faithful  soldicrp 
But  first  must  trace  the  spot,  where  she  lay  bleeding 
Who  gave  me  life.     No  more  shall  beast  of  ravine 
Affront  with  baser  spoil  that  sacred  forest ! 
Or  if  avengers  more  than  human  haunt  there, 
Take  they  what  shape  they  list,  savage  or  heavenly. 
They  shall  make  answer  to  me,  though  my  heart's  blood 
*hould  be  the  spell  to  bind  them.     Blood  calls  for  blood  ! 

[Exit  Bethlen. 

S<ir.  Ah  !  it  was  this  I  feared.     To  ward  oft  this 
Did  I  withhold  from  him  that  old  Bathory 
Returning  hid  beneath  the  selfsame  oak. 
Where  the  babe  lay,  the  mantle,  and  some  jewel 
Bound  on  his  infant  arm. 

Gly.  Oh,  let  me  fly 

And  stop  him  !     Mangled  limbs  do  there  lie  scattered 
Till  the  lured  eagle  bears  them  to  her  nest. 
And  voices  have  been  heard !     And  there  the  plant  grows 
That  being  eaten  gives  the  inhuman  wizard 
Power  to  put  on  the  fell  hyiena's  shape. 

Sar,  What  idle  tongue  hath  bewitched  thee,  Glycine  f 
1  hoped  that  thou  hadst  learnt  a  nobler  faith. 

Gbj.  0  chide  me  not,  dear  lady  ;  question  Laska, 
Or  the  old  man. 

Sar.  Forgive  me,  I  spake  harshly. 

It  is  indeed  a  mighty  sorcery 
That  doth  enthral  thy  young  heart,  my  poor  girl. 
And  what  hath  Laska  told  thee  ? 

Gly.  Three  days  past 

A  courier  from  the  king  did  cross  that  wood  ; 
A  wilful  man,  that  armed  himself  on  purpose  : 
And  never  hath  been  heard  of  from  that  time  ! 

[sound  of  horns  unthotU 

Sar.  Hark  !  dost  thou  hear  it? 

Gly.  'Tis  the  sound  of  horns  ! 

Our  huntsmen  are  not  out ! 

Sar.  Lord  Casimir 

Would  not  come  thus  !  [horns  again, 

Gly.  Still  louder ! 

Sar.  Ha&le  ^e  ^lenoft  *. 


For  1  believe  in  part  thy  tale  of  terror  ! 

But,  trust  me,  'tis  the  inner  man  transformed  . 

Beasts  in  the  shape  of  men  are  worse  than  war-wolves. 

[SaroUa  and  Glycine  exeant.  Trumpets^  4^.  lamdtr 
Enter  Emerick,  Lord  JRuddph,  Lciska,  and  HtmU 
nien  and  Attendants. 

Mud.  A  gallant  chase,  sire. 

Enie,  Ay,  but  this  new  quarry 

That  we  last  started  seems  worth  all  the  rest,     [then  to  Z^aska 
And  you — excuse  me— what's  your  name  ? 

Las.  Whatever 

Your  majesty  may  please. 

Erne.  Nay,  that's  too  late,  man. 

Say,  what  thy  mother  and  thy  godfather 
Were  pleased  to  call  thee. 

Las.  Laska,  my  liege  sovereign. 

Erne.  Well,  my  liege  subject,  Laska  !     And  you  arc 
Lord  Casimir's  steward  ? 

Las  And  your  majesty's  creature. 

Erne.  Two  ji^enlle  dames  made  off  at  our  approach. 
Which  was  your  lady  ? 

Las  My  liege  lord,  the  taller. 

The  other,  please  your  grace,  is  her  poor  handmaid, 
Long  since  betrothed  to  me.      But  the  maid's  froward — 
Yet  would  your  grace  but  npeak — 

Erne.  Hum,  master  steward  I 

I  am  honored  with  this  sudden  coiifideuoe. 
Lead  on.  \fo  Laska  then  to  Rudolph, 

Lord  Rudolph,  you'll  announce  our  coming. 
Greet  fair  Sarolta  from  me,  and  entreat  her 
To  be  our  gentle  hostess.     Mark,  you  add 
How  much  we  grieve,  that  business  of  the  state 
Hath  forced  us  to  delay  her  lord's  return. 

L.  Ritd.  (aside.)  Lewd,  ingrate  tyrant  I    Yes,  I  will  announce 

Emc.  Now  onward  all.  [Exeinit  attendants, 

A  fair  one  by  my  faith  ! 
If  her  face  rival  but  her  gait  and  stature. 
My  good  friend  Casimir  had  his  reasons  too. 
"  Her  tender  health,  her  vow  o^  avtvcv  xevwvim^vwx.. 

ZaPOLYA.  446 

Made  early  in  the  convent — His  word  pledged — " 

All  fictions,  all !  fictions  of  jealousy. 

Well !  if  the  mountain  move  not  to  the  prophet, 

The  prophet  must  to  the  mountain  !     In  this  Laska 

There's  somewhat  of  the  knave  mixed  up  with  dolt. 

Through  the  transparence  of  the  fool,  methought, 

I  saw  (as  I  could  lay  my  finger  on  it) 

The  crocodile's  eye,  that  peered  up  from  the  hottom. 

Tiiis  knave  may  do  us  service.     Hot  amhition 

Won  me  the  hushand.     Now  let  vanity 

And  the  resentment  for  a  forced  seclusion 

Decoy  the  wife  !     Let  him  he  deemed  the  aggressor 

Whoj^  cunning  and  distrust  hegan  the  game  !  [E'CU* 

ACT  n. 

Scene  I. — A  savage  icood. — At  one  side  a  cavern,  overhung 
ivith  ivy.  Zapolya  and  llaab  Kiujyrili  discovered :  both,  Imi 
esjwcially  the  latter,  in  rude  and  savage  garments. 

a.  Kiu.  Heard  you  then  aught  while  I  was  slumbering  ? 

Zap.  Nothing. 

Only  your  face  became  convulsed.     We  miserable  ! 
Is  heaven's  last  mercy  fled  ?     Is  sleep  grown  treacherous  f 

R.  Kin.  0  for  a  sleep,  for  sleep  itself  to  rest  in  ! 
I  dream'd  I  had  met  with  food  beneath  a  tree, 
And  I  was  seeking  you,  when  all  at  once 
^ly  feet  became  entangled  in  a  net, 
Still  more  entangled  as  in  rage  I  tore  it. 
At  length  I  freed  myself,  had  sight  of  you, 
But  as  I  hastened  eagerly,  again 
I  found  my  frame  encumbered  :  a  huge  serpent 
Twined  round  my  chest,  but  tightest  round  my  throat 

Z,ap.  Alas !  'twas  lack  of  food  :  for  hunger  chokes  ! 

li.  Kin.  And  now  I  saw  you  by  a  shrivelled  child 
K-^'trangely  pursued.     You  did  not  fly,  yet  neither 
1  ouclied  you  the  ground,  methought,  but  close  above  it 
\j\i\  seem  to  ohoot  yourself  along  the  air, 
And  as  you  passed  me,  turned  your  face  and  ahriekftd.. 

Zap.  I  did  in  truth  send  forth  a  feeb\e  ftVineV, 

446  aAPOLYJL 

Scarce  knowing  why.     Perhaps  the  mock  d  senae  craved 
To  hear  the  scream,  which  you  hut  Beemdd  to  utter. 
For  your  whole  face  looked  like  a  mask  of  torture  I 
Yet  a  child's  image  doth  indeed  pursue  me 
Shrivelled  with  toil  and  penury  ! 

R.  Kiu.  Nay  1  what  ails  jon  ? 

Zap,  A  wondrous  faintness  there  comes  stealing  o'er  me 
Js  it  Death's  lengthening  shadow,  who  comes  onward, 
Life'fr  setting  sun  hehind  him  ? 

R.  Kiu.  Cheerly !  The  dusk 

Will  quickly  shroud  us.     Ere  the  moon  be  up, 
Trust  me  Til  bring  thee  food  ! 

Zap,  Hunger's  tooth  has 

Gnawn  itself  blunt.     0,  I  could  queen  it  well 
O'er  my  own  sorrows  as  my  rightful  subjects. 
But  wherefore,  0  revered  Kiuprili  I  wherefore 
Did  my  importunate  prayers,  my  hopes  and  fancies. 
Force  thee  from  thy  secure  though  sad  retreat  ? 
Would  that  my  tongue  had  then  cloven  to  my  mouth ! 
But  heaven  is  just  I     With  tears  I  conquered  thee. 
And  not  a  tear  is  left  me  to  repent  with  I 
Hadst  thou  not  done  already — hadst  thou  not 
Sufiered — oh,  more  than  e'er  man  feigned  of  friendship  ? 

R.  Kiu.  Yet  be  thou  comforted  !  What !  hadst  thou  faith 
When  I  turned  back  incredulous  ?  'Twas  thy  light 
That  kindled  mine.     And  shall  it  now  go  out, 
And  leave  thy  soul  in  darkness  ?     Yet  look  up. 
And  think  thou  seest  thy  sainted  lord  commissioned 
And  on  his  way  to  aid  us  ?     Whence  those  late  dreams. 
Which  after  such  long  interval  of  hopeless 
And  silent  resignation  all  at  once 
Night  after  night  commanded  thy  return 
Hither  ?  and  still  presented  in  clear  vision 
This  wood  as  in  a  scene  I  this  very  cavern  ? 
Thou  darest  not  doubt  that  Heaven's  especial  hand 
Worked  in  those  signs.     The  hour  of  thy  deliverance 
fs  on  the  stroke  : — for  misery  can  not  add 
G-rief  to  thy  griefs,  or  patience  to  thy  sufferance  ! 

7^p.  Can  not  I  0,  what  if  thou  wert  taken  from  me  ? 
N&y,  thou  said'st  well  *.  for  iViat  biwA.  <i^«L\.Vv  ^n^x^  ^w«i. 

ZAPOLYA.  447 

Life's  grief  is  at  ita  height  indeed  ;  the  hard 
Necessity  of  this  inhuman  state 
Hath  made  our  deeds  inhuman  as  our  vestments. 
Housed  in  this  wild  wood,  with  wild  usages, 
Dauber  our  guest,  and  famine  at  our  portal — 
AVoll-like  to  prowl  in  the  shepherd's  fold  by  night ! 
At  once  for  food  and  safety  to  ailHghten 
The  traveller  from  his  road — 

[  Glycine  is  /leard  singing  unthout. 
R.  Kin.  Hark  1  heard  you  not 

A  distant  chant  ? 

SoNQ — by  Glycine. 
A  sunny  shafl  did  I  behold. 

From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  : 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 

Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted  ! 
He  sank,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  trolled 

Within  that  shafl  of  sunny  mist ; 
His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 

All  else  of  amethyst ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :  "  Adieu  !  adieu  ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms,  they  make  no  delay : 
.  The  sparkling  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away ; 
Far,  far  away  I 
To-day!  to-day  I" 

Zap.  Sure  'tis  some  bleit  spirit ! 

For  since  thou  slew'st  the  usurper's  emissary 
That  plunged  upon  us,  a  more  than  mortal  fear 
Is  as  a  wall,  that  wards  off  the  beleaguerer 
And  starves  the  poor  besieged.  L^^^  again, 

R.  Kiu.  It  is  a  maiden's  voice !  quick  to  the  cave ! 

Zap,  Hark !  her  voice  falters  !  [Exit  Zapolya. 

R.  Kiu.  She  must  not  enter 

The  cavern,  else  I  will  remain  unseen! 

[  Kiuprili  retires  to  one  side  of  the  stage.    Glycine  enters 

448  ZAPOLYA. 

Gly.  A  savage  place !  saints  shield  me !  Bethlen  I  Bethlea 
Not  here  ? — There's  no  one  here  !  Til  sing  again      [sings  again 
If  I  do  not  hear  my  own  voice,  I  shall  iancy 
Voices  in  all  chance  sounds  !  [starts. 

*Twas  some  dry  branch 
Dropt  of  itself !  Oh,  he  went  forth  so  rashly, 
Took  no  food  with  him — only  his  arms  and  boar-spear  ! 
What  if  I  leave  these  cakes,  this  cruse  of  wine, 
Here  by  this  cave,  and  seek  him  with  the  rest  ? 

R.  Kin.  (izfiseen.)  Leave  them  and  flee  I 

Gly.  {shrieks,  tJten  recovering.)  Where  are  you  ? 

R.  Kiu.  (slill  unseen.)  Leave  them  ! 

Gly.  Tis  Glycine  I 

Speak  to  me,  Bethlen  !  speak  in  your  own  voice  ! 
All  silent ! — If  this  were  the  war- wolf 's  den ! 
'Twas  not  his  voice ! — 

[  Glycine  leaves  the  provisions  and  exit.     KiuprUi  comes 
forward,  scfzes  them  and  carries  them  into  the  cavern, 
Glyci?ic  returns. 

Gly.  Shame  !  nothing  hurt  me  ! 

If  some  fierce  beast  have  gored  hirn,  he  must  nee<ls 
Speak  with  a  strange  voice.  Wounds  cause  thirst  and  hoarseness  ' 
Speak,  Bethlen  !  or  but  moan.     St — St — No— Bethlen  ! 
If  I  turn  back  and  he  should  be  found  dead  here, 

[sli^  creeps  7iearer  and  nearer  to  the  co/vern 
I  should  go  mad  I — Again  I — 'Twas  my  own  heart  I 
Hush,  coward  heart  I  better  beat  loud  with  fear. 
Than  break  with  shame  and  anguish  ! 

[As  she  approaches  to  enter  the  cavern,  KiuprUi  .^ifops  her 
Glycine  shrieks. 

Saints  protect  me  I 

R.  Kiu.  Swear  then  by  all  thy  hopes,  by  all  thy  fears — 

Gly.  Save  me ! 

R.  Kiu  Sw3ar  secrecy  and  silence  ! 

Gly.  I  swear ! 

R.  Kiu.  Tell  what  thou  art,  and  what  thou  seekest  ? 

G/y.  Only 

A  harmless  orphan  youth,  to  bring  him  food — 

R.  Kiu.  Wherefore  in  this  wood  ? 

Gly.  Alas  *.  it  was  Ui*  y  J^^fV^**^ — 

ZAPOLTA.  449 

R.  Kin.  With  what  intention  came  he  ?    Wonld*8t  thou  save 
Hide  nothing ! 

Gly.  Save  him !     0  forgive  his  rashness ! 
He  is  good,  and  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  human ! 

R.  Kiu.  Human? 

With  what  design  ? 

Ghj.  To  kill  thee,  or 

If  thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  compel  thee 
](y  prayers,  and  with  the  shedding  of  his  blood, 
To  make  disclosure  of  his  parentage. 
But  most  of  all — 

Zap.  {rushing  out  from  tJie  cavern.)  Heaven's  blessing  on  tboe  • 
Speak ! 

Gly.  Whether  his  mother  live,  or  perished  here  ! 

Zap.  Angel  of  mercy,  I  was  perishing, 
And  thou  did'st  bring  me  food  :  and  now  thou  bring'st 
The  sweet,  sweet  food  of  hope  and  consolation 
To  a  mother^s  famished  heart !     His  name,  sweet  maiden  I 

Gly.  E'en  till  this  morning  we  were  wont  to  name  him 
Bethlen  Bathory ! 

Zap.  Even  till  this  morning  ? 

This  morning?  when  my  weak  faith  failed  me  wholly! 
Pardon,  0  thou  that  portion'st  out  our  sufferance. 
And  fiU'st  again  the  widow's  empty  cruse ! 
S.iy  on  ! 

Gly.  The  false  ones  charged  the  valiant  youth 
With  treasonous  words  of  Emerick — 

Zap,  Ha !  my  son ! 

Gly.  And  of  Lord  Casimir — 

R.  Kiu.  {aside.)  0  agony  !  my  son  ! 

Gly.  But  my  dear  lady-* 

Zap.  and  R.  Kiu  Who  ? 

Gly.  Lady  Sarolta 

Fiitwncd  and  discharged  these  bad  men. 

R.  Kiu.  {to  himself.)  Righteous  heaven 
Sent  me  a  daughter  once,  and  I  repined 
That  it  was  not  a  son.     A  son  was  given  me. 
My  daughter  died,  and  I  scarce  shed  a  tear : 
And  lol  that  son  became  my  curse  and  iuEaia]. 


2^p.  {embraces  Glycine.)  Sweet  innooeot !  and  yoa  rmwkc  ken 

to  seek  him, 
And  bring  him  food.     Alas  !  thou  fear'st  ? 

Gil/.  Not  nmch ! 

My  own  dear  lady,  when  I  Mas  a  child, 
Embraced  me  oil,  but  her  heart  never  beat  so. 
For  I  too  am  an  orphan,  motherless ! 

R.  Kin.  (to  Zapdya.)  0  yet  beware,  lest  hope's  brief  flash  but 
The  afler-gloom,  and  make  the  darkness  stormy ! 
In  that  last  conflict,  following  our  escape, 
The  usurper's  cruelty  had  clogged  our  flight 
With  many  a  babe  and  many  a  childing  mother. 
This  maid  herself  is  one  of  numberless 

Planks  from  the  same  vast  wreck.        [tlicn  to  Glycine  again 

Well !  Casimir^s  wife — 

Gly.  She  is  alwa^'s  gracious,  and  so  praised  the  old  man 
That  his  heart  o'erilowed,  and  made  discovery 
That  in  this  wood — 

Zap.  0  speak  I 

Gly.  A  wounded  lady — 

{Zapolya  faints — tltey  both  syp]x>rt  her 

Gly.  Is  this  his  mother  ? 

R.  Kill.  She  would  fain  believe  it. 

Weak  though  the  proofs  be.     Hope  draws  towards  itself 
The  flame  with  which  it  kindles.  [horn  heard  tci*hout 

To  the  cavern ! 
ftuick  !  quick  ! 

Gly.  Perchance  some  huntsmen  of  the  king's. 

R.  Kin.  Emerick  ? 

Gly.  He  came  this  morning — 

[  They  retire  to  the  cavern,  bearing  Zapolya.      Then  enter 
Bcthlen^  armed  tcifh  a  boar-sjyrar. 

Bet.  I  had  a  glimpse 

Of  some  fierce  shape  ;  and  but  that  Fancy  of\en 
Is  Nature's  intermeddler,  and  cries  halves 
With  the  outward  sight,  I  should  believe  I  saw  it 
Bear  ofl'  some  human  prey.     0  my  preserver  I 
Bathorv !  Father  I  Yes,  thou  deserv'st  that  name  I 


Thou  did  st  not  mock  ine\    T\\e^  at^Wess^A  K\yv^vev^\ 

ZAPOLYA.  461 

The  secret  cipher  of  my  destiny  [  Looking  at  his  signet. 

Stands  here  inscribed  :  it  is  the  seal  of  fate  ! 

I  la  I — Had  ever  monster  fitting  lair,  His  yonder  1 

Thou  yawning  den,  I  well  remember  thee  ! 

Mine  eyes  deceived  mo  not.     Heaven  leads  mo  on  ! 

Now  for  a  blast,  loud  as  a  king's  defiance, 

To  rouse  the  monster  couchant  o'er  his  ravine  1 

[Blows  the  horn — then  a  pause. 
Another  blast !  and  with  another  swell 
To  you,  ye  charmed  watchers  of  this  wood ! 
If  haply  I  have  come,  the  rightful  heir 
Of  vengeance  :  if  in  me  survive  the  spirits 
Of  those,  whose  guiltless  blood  flowed  streaming  here ! 

[Blows  again  louder. 
Still  silent  ?     Is  the  monster  gorged  ?     Heaven  shield  me  ! 
Thou,  faithful  spear !  bo  both  my  torch  and  guide. 

[As  Betlden  is  about  to  etUer,  Kiuprili  speaks  from  th-e 
cavern  unseen. 

11.  Kin.  AVithdraw  thy  foot !     Retract  thine  idle  sp^^r 
And  wait  obedient ! 

Bet.  Ha  !     What  art  thou  ?  speak  ! 

R.  Kiu.  {still  ufiseen.)  Avengers  I 

Bet.  By  a  dying  mother's  pangs 

E'en  such  am  I.     Receive  me  ! 

It.  Kiu.  (still  Ufiseen.)         Wait !  Beware  ! 
At  thy  first  step,  thou  treadest  upon  the  light. 
Thenceforth  must  darkling  flow,  and  sink  in  darkness ! 

Bet.  Ha  !  see  my  boar-spear  trembles  like  a  reed  I — 
Oh,  fool  I  mine  eyes  are  duped  by  my  own  shuddering.— 
Those  piled  thoughts,  built  up  in  solitude. 
Year  following  year  that  pressed  upon  my  heart 
As  on  the  altar  of  some  unknown  (to<1, 
Then,  as  if  touched  by  flro  from  heaven  dc»>cndinj^, 
Blazed  up  within  mo  at  a  father's  name — 
Do  they  desert  mo  now  I — at  my  last  trial  ? 
Voice  of  command  !  and  thou,  0  hidden  Light ! 
I  have  obeyed  I     Declare  ye  by  what  name 
1  dare  invoke  you  I     Tell  what  sacrifice 
Will  make  you  gracious. 

/?.  A7u.  (sfi/l  unseen.)  Patience  I  TiwlYi\  0\je^\«xv^«\ 

453  ZAPOLYA. 

Be  thy  whole  soul  transparent !  so  the  Light. 
Thou  seekest,  may  enshrine  itself  within  thee  I 
Thy  name  ? 

Bet.  Ask  rather  the  poor  roaming  savage. 
Whose  infancy  no  holy  rite  had  blest. 
To  him,  perchance  rude  spoil  or  ghastly  trophy. 
In  chase  or  battle  won,  have  given  a  name. 

have  none — ^but  like  a  dog  have  answered 
To  the  chance  sound  which  he  that  fed  me,  called  me. 

R.  Kiu.  {still  unseen.)  Thy  birth-place  ? 

Bet.  Dehiding  spirits  !     Do  ye  mock  me  ? 
duestion  the  Night !     Bid  Darkness  tell  its  birth-pla««  I 
Yet  hear  I     Within  yon  old  oak's  hollow  trunk. 
Where  the  bats  cling,  have  I  surveyed  my  cradle  ! 
The  mother-falcon  hath  her  nest  above  it. 

And  in  it  the  wolf  litters  I 1  invoke  you, 

Tell  me,  ve  secret  ones !  if  ve  beheld  me 

As  I  slood  there,  like  one  who  liaving  delved 

For  hidden  gold  hath  louiid  a  talisman, 

0  tell !  what  rijrhts,  what  offices  of  dutv 

Tiiis  signet  doth  command  ?     AVhat  rebel  spints 

Owe  homage  to  its  Lord  ? 

R.  Kiu.  (still  unstcn.)  More,  guiltier,  mightier. 
Than  thou  mav'st  summon  I     Wait  the  destined  hour  I 

Bet.  0  yet  again,  and  with  more  clamorous  prayer, 
T  im[>ortuue  ye  I     Mock  me  no  more  with  shadow's ! 
This  sable  mantle — tell,  dread  voice  I  did  this 
Enwrap  one  fatherless  I 

Zap.  (unseen.)  One  fatherless  ! 

Bet.  A  sweeter  voice  I — A  voice  of  love  and  pity. 
Was  it  the  sol'tened  echo  of  mine  own  ? 
Sad  echo  I  but  the  hope,  it  kili'd.  was  sickly. 
And  ere  it  died  it  had  been  mouruetl  as  dead  ! 
One  other  hope  yet  lives  within  my  soul : 
Quick  let  me  ask! — while  yet  this  stiding  fear 
This  stop  oi  the  heart,  leaves  utterance  ! — Are — are  these 
The  sole  remains  of  her  that  gave  me  liiV  ? 
Have  I  a  mother  ? 

[  Zapolifa  rushes  out  to  embrace  hiim. 

ZAPOLYA.  453 

Zap.  My  son  !  my  son  ! 

A  wretched — Oh  no,  no  \^  blest — a  happy  mother ! 

[  Tliey  embrace,     ZtUprUi  aful  Glycme  come  forward,  and 
tlie  curtain  drops. 


Scene  I. — A  stately  room  in  Lord  Casimir's  castle. 

Enter  Emerick  and  Laska. 

Erne.  I  do  perceive  thou  hast  a  tender  conscience, 
Laska,  in  all  things  that  concern  thine  own 
Interest  or  safety. 

Las.  In  this  sovereign  presence 

I  can  fear  nothing,  but  your  dread  displeasure. 

Erne.  Perchance,  thou  think'st  it  strange,  that  I  of  all  men 
Should  covet  thus  the  love  of  fair  Sarolta, 
Dishonoring  Casimir  ? 

Las.  Far  be  it  from  me  ! 

Your  Majesty's  love  and  choice  bring  honor  with  them. 

Erne.  Perchance,  thou  hast  heard,  that  Casimir  is  my  friend, 
Fought  lor  me,  yea,  for  my  sake,  set  at  naught 
A  parent's  blessing  ;  braved  a  father's  curse  ? 

Lan.  {aside.)  Would  I  but  knew  now,  what  his  Majesty  meant 
Oh  yes,  Sire  I  'tis  our  common  talk,  how  Lord 
Kiuprili,  my  Lord's  father — 

Emc.  'Tis  your  talk. 

Is  it,  good  statesman  Laska? 

L'is.  No,  not  mine. 

Not  mine,  an  please  your  Majesty  !     There  are 
Some  insolent  malcontents  indeed  that  talk  thus^- 
Nay  worse,  mere  treason.     As  Bathory's  son, 
The  fool  that  ran  into  the  monster's  jaws. 

Erne.  Well,  'tis  a  loyal  monster  if  he  rids  us 
Of  traitors  !     But  art  sure  the  youth's  devoured  ? 

Las.  Not  a  limb  Icf^,  an  please  your  Majesty  I 
And  that  unhappy  girl — 

Ewe.  Thou  folio wed'st  her 

Into  the  wood  ?  \  Xiaska  bo\c%  a^iwnX. 

454  ZAPOLTA. 

Henceforth,  then,  I'll  helieTe 
That  jealousy  can  make  a  hare  a  lion. 

Las.  Scarce  had  I  got  the  first  glimpfie  of  her  Teil, 
When,  with  a  horrid  roar  that  made  the  leaves 
Of  the  wood  shake — 

Enie,  Made  thee  shake  like  a  leaf, 

Las.  The  war-wolf  leap'd  ;  at  the  first  plunge  he  eeiz'd  her. 
Forward  I  rush'd  I 

Em4!.  Most  marvellous! 

Las.  HurFd  my  javelin  ; 

Which  from  his  dragon-scales  recoiling — 

Erne.  Enough ! 

And  take,  friend,  this  advice.     When  next  thou  tong^est  it. 
Hold  constant  to  thy  exploit  with  this  monster, 
And  leave  untouched  your  common  talk  aforesaid, 
What  your  Lord  did,  or  should  have  done. 

Lai  My  talk  ? 

The  saints  forbid  !  I  always  said,  for  my  part, 
*'  AVas  not  the  king  Lord  Casimir's  dearest  friend  ? 
Was  not  that  friend  a  king?     Whate'er  he  did 
*Twas  all  from  pure  love  to  his  Majesty." 

Erne.  And  this  then  was  thy  talk  ?     While  knave  and  coward 
Both  strong  within  thee,  wrestle  for  the  uppermost 
In  slips  the  fool  and  takes  the  place  of  both. 
Babbler !  Lord  Casimir  did,  as  thou  and  all  men. 
He  loved  himself,  loved  honors,  wealth,  dominion, 
All  these  were  set  upon  a  father's  head  : 
Good  truth !  a  most  unlucky  accident  I 
For  he  but  wished  to  hit  the  prize  ;  not  graze 
The  head  that  bore  it :  so  with  steady  eye 
Off  flew  the  parricidal  arrow. — Even 
As  Casimir  loved  Emerick,  Emcrick 
Loves  Casimir,  intends  him  no  dishonor. 
He  winked  not  then,  for  love  of  me  forsooth  I 
For  love  of  me  now  let  him  wink !     Or  if 
The  dame  prove  half  as  wise  as  she  is  fair, 
He  may  still  pass  his  hand,  and  find  all  smooth. 

[passing  his  liand  across  his  brow. 

Las.  Your  Majesty^s  reasoning  has  convinced  me. 

Erne.  Thee : 

ZAPOLYA.  46d 

Tis  well !  and  more  than  meant.     For  by  my  faith 
1  had  half  forgotten  thee. — Thou  hast  the  key  ?         [Laska  bows 
And  in  your  lady's  chamber  there's  full  space  ? 

La^.  Between  the  wall  and  arras  to  conceal  you. 

JEme.  Here  I     This  purse  is  but  an  earnest  of  thy  fortune, 
If  thou  prov'st  faithful.     But  if  thou  betrayest  mo, 
Hark  you  ! — the  wolf,  that  shall  drag  thee  to  his  den 
Shall  bo  no  fiction. 

[JSxit  Emcrick,     Laska  tnanet  vnth  a  key  in  one  handj 
and  a  jmrse  in  tJie  otfier. 

Las,  Well  then  !     Here  I  stand, 

Like  Hercules,  on  either  side  a  goddess. 
Call  this  (looking  at  tlu  purse.) 

Preferment ;  this  (lidding  up  tfie  key.)     Fidelity  I 
And  first  my  golden  goddess  :  what  bids  she  ? 
Only  : — '*  This  way,  your  Majesty  !  hush  I     The  household 
Arc  all  safe  lodged." — Then,  put  Fidelity 
Within  her  proper  wards,  just  turn  her  round — 
So — the  door  opens — and  ibr  all  the  rest, 
Tis  the  king's  deed,  not  Laska's.     Do  but  this 
And — "  Fm  the  mere  earnest  of  your  future  fortunes.** 
But  what  says  the  other  ? — ^Whisper  on  !  I  hear  you  I 

{putting  tlie  key  to  his  ear. 
All  very  true  I — but,  good  Fidelity  I 
If  I  refuse  King  Emerick,  will  you  promise, 
And  swear  now,  to  unlock  the  dungeon-door. 
And  save  me  from  the  hangman  ?     Ay  I  you're  silent ! 
What,  not  a  word  in  answer  ?     A  clear  nonsuit ! 
Now  for  one  look  to  see  that  all  are  lodged 
At  the  due  distance — then — yonder  lies  the  road 
For  Laska  and  his  royal  friend,  King  Emerick  ! 

[Exit  Laska.     Then  enter  Batliory  and  BetUen 

Bet.  Ho  looked  as  if  he  were  some  God  disguised 
In  an  old  warrior*s  venerable  shape 
To  guard  and  guide  my  mother.     Is  there  not 
Chapel  or  oratory  in  this  mansion  ? 

O.  Bat.  Even  so. 

Bet.  From  that  place  then  am  I  to  take 

A  helm  and  breast-plate,  both  inlaid  with  gold. 
And  the  good  sword  that  once  was  Raab  KVu^^nW  %. 

1 0„U,.  ,.,„«' 
^  iTiou  canst  nof  J. 

'>J»p«lhize  mil,  ,1     " 

TL  "Hn    III,.    ,,f, 

-Co..  (-< 

'"wnfeu.u.       '""-f 

Las.  ^*«- 


ZAPOLYA.  457 

I  myself  braved  the  monster,  and  would  fain 

Have  saved  tho  false  one  from  the  fate  she  tempted. 

O.  Bat.  You,  Laska  ? 

Bet,  {to  Bathory.)  Mark  !     Heaven  grant  it  may  be  ■o! 
Glycine  ? 

Las.         She  I     I  traced  her  by  the  voice. 
You'll  scarce  believe  me,  when  I  say  1  heard 
The  close  of  a  song  :  the  poor  wretch  had  been  singing : 
As  if  she  wished  to  compliment  the  war-wolf 
At  once  with  music  and  a  meal ! 

Bet.  {to  Bathai-y.)  Mark  that ! 

Las.  At  the  next  moment  I  beheld  her  running, 
Wringing  her  hands  with,  **  Bethlen  I  0  poor  Bethlen !" 
I  almost  fear,  the  sudden  noise  I  made, 
Rushing  impetuous  through  the  brake,  alarmed  her. 
She  stopp'd,  then  mad  with  fear,  turn'd  round  and  ran 
Into  the  monster's  gripe.     One  piteous  scream 
I  beard.     There  was  no  second — I — 

Bet.  Stop  there  I 

We'll  spare  your  modesty  !     Who  dares  not  honor 
Laska's  bravo  tongue,  and  high  heroic  fancy  ? 

Las,  You  too,  Sir  Knight,  have  come  back  safe  and  sound  I 
You  played  the  hero  at  a  cautious  distance  ! 
Or  was  it  that  you  sent  the  poor  girl  forward 
To  stay  the  monster's  stomach  ?     Dainties  quickly 
Pall  on  the  taste  and  cloy  the  appetite  ! 

O.  Bat.  Laska,  beware  !     Forget  not  what  thou  art  I 
Shouldst  thou  but  dream  thou'rt  valiant,  cross  thyself ! 
And  ache  all  over  at  the  dangerous  fancy. 

Las.  What  then  !  you  swell  upon  my  lady's  favor. 
High  Lords  and  perilous  of  one  day's  growth  ! 
But  other  judges  now  sit  on  the  bench  ! 
And  haply,  Laska  hath  found  audience  there. 
Where  to  defend  the  treason  of  a  son 
Might  end  in  lifting  up  both  son  and  father 
Still  higher  ;  to  a  height  from  which  indeed 
You  both  may  drop,  but,  spite  of  fate  and  fortune,   • 
Will  bo  secured  from  falling  to  the  ground. 
'Tis  possible  too,  young  man  1  that  royal  Emerick, 

VOL.  vu.  U 

458  ZAPOLYA. 

At  Laska's  rightful  suit,  may  make  inquiry 

By  whom  seduced,  the  maid  so  strangely  miaung'-^ 

Bet.  Soft !  my  good  Laska  !  might  it  not  suffice. 
If  to  yourself,  being  Lord  Casimir's  steward, 
I  should  make  record  of  Glycine's  fate  ? 

Ixis.  Tis  well  I  it  shall  content  me !  though  your  fear 
Has  all  the  credit  of  these  lowered  tones. 
First  we  demand  the  manner  of  her  death  ? 

Bet.  Nay  !  that's  superfluous!     Have  yon  not  just  told  m, 
That  you  yourself,  led  by  impetuous  valor, 
Witnessed  the  whole  ?     My  tale's  of  later  date. 
After  the  fate,  from  which  your  valor  strove 
In  vain  to  rescue  the  rash  maid,  I  saw  her ! 

Las.  Glycine? 

Bet.  Nay  !     Dare  I  accuse  wise  Laska, 

Whose  words  find  access  to  a  monarch's  ear. 
Of  a  base,  braggart  lie  ?     It  must  have  been 
Her  spirit  that  appeared  to  me.     But  haply 
1  come  too  late  ?     It  has  itself  delivered 
Its  own  coiiiiiiisfiion  to  you  ? 

O.  Bat.  "     Tis  most  likely ! 

And  the  ghost  doubtless  vanished  when  we  entered 
And  found  brave  Laska  staring  wide — at  nothing  ! 

Las.  Tis  well !  you've  ready  wits  !  I  shall  report  th3m» 
With  all  due  honor  to  liis  majesty  ! 
Trea:.ure  them  up,  1  pray  I     A  certain  person, 
Whom  the  king  flatters  with  his  confidence, 
Tells  you,  his  royal  friend  asks  startling  questions ! 
Tis  but  a  hint !     And  now  what  says  the  ghost  ? 

Bet.  Listen  !  for  thus  it  spake  :  *'  Say  thou  to  Lask&, 
Glycine,  knowing  all  thy  thoughts  engrossed 
In  thy  new  ollice  of  kings  fool  and  knave, 
Foreseeing,  thoult  forget  with  thine  own  hand 
To  make  dne  penance  for  the  wrongs  thou'st  caused  her, 
For  thv  youi's  safety,  doth  consent  to  take  it 
P'rom  Bethlen's  cntlgel' — thus.  \beats  him  off. 

Of!'!  scoundrel  I  of!'! 

[Laska  runs  au?ay» 

O.  Bat     Che  sudden  swelling  of  this  shallow  dastard 

ZAPOLYA.  459 

Tells  of  a  recent  storm  :  the  first  disruption 

Of  the  hlack  cloud  that  hangs  and  threatens  o'er  us. 

Bet.  E'en  this  reproves  ray  loitering.     Say  where  lies 
The  oratory  ? 

O.  Bat.         Ascend  yon  flight  of  stairs  I 
Midway  the  corridor  a  silver  lamp 
Hangs  o'er  the  entrance  of  Sarolta's  chamber, 
And  facing  it,  the  low  arched  oratory  ! 
Me  thou'lt  find  watching  at  the  outward  gate  : 
For  a  petard  might  burst  the  bars  unheard 
By  the  drenched  porter,  and  Sarolta  hourly 
Expects  Lord  Casimir,  spite  of  Emerick's  message! 

Bet.  There  I  will  meet  you  !     And  till  then  good  night ! 
Dear  good  old  man,  good  night ! 

O.  Bat.  0  yet  one  moment  I 

What  I  repelled,  when  it  did  see  seem  my  own, 
I  cling  to,  now  'tis  parting — call  me  father ! 
It  can  not  now  mislead  thee.     0  my  son. 
Ere  yet  our  tongues  have  learnt  another  name, 
Bethlen  ! — say — Father  to  me  ! 

Bet.  Now,  and  forever 

My  father  !  other  sire  than  thou,  on  earth 
I  never  had,  a  dearer  could  not  have ! 
From  the  base  earth  you  raised  me  to  your  arms. 
And  I  would  leap  from  off' a  throne,  and  kneeling, 
Ask  heaven's  blessing  from  thy  lips.     My  father! 

O.  Bat.  Go!  Go!  [Exit  Bethlen. 

May  every  star  now  shining  over  us, 

]]e  as  an  angel's  eye,  to  watch  and  guard  him ! 

[Exit  Bathory, 

Scene  changes  to  a  splendid  Bed-cJiatJiber,  hung  with  tapestry 

Sarolta  and  an  Attendant. 

Aft.  We  all  did  love  her,  madam ! 

Sar.  She  deserved  it ! 

Luckless  Glycine  I  rash,  unhappy  girl ! 
*Twas  the  first  time  she  e'er  deceived  me. 

Aft.  She  was  in  love,  and  had  she  not  died  thus, 
With  grief  for  Bethlen's  loss,  and  fear  of  Laska, 
She  would  have  pined  herself  to  death  at  V\otii«. 

S^/r.  Has  tho  youth*B  father  come  back  from  \v\t^  wi;vT«\v^. 

460  ZAPOLYA. 

Att.  He  never  will,  I  fear  me,  O  dear  lady  1 
That  Laska  did  so  triumph  o'er  the  old  man — 
It  was  quite  cruel — **  You'll  he  sure,"  said  he, 
"  To  meet  with  part  at  least  of  your  son  Bethlen, 
Or  the  war- wolf  must  have  a  quick  digestion  ! 
Go  !  search  the  wood  hy  all  means !     Go !  I  pray  you  !*' 

Sar.  Inhuman  wretch  ! 

Au,  And  old  Bathoiy  answered 

With  a  sad  smile,  "  It  is  a  witch's  prayer, 
And  may  Heaven  read  it  backwards."    Though  she  was  rash, 
'Twas  a  small  fault  for  such  a  punishment ! 

Sar.  Nay,  'twas  my  grief,  and  not  my  anger  spoke. 
Small  fault  indeed  !  but  leave  me,  my  good  girl ! 
I  feel  a  weight  that  only  prayer  can  lighten. 

[Exit  Attendamt. 
O  they  were  innocent  and  yet  have  perished 
In  their  May  of  life ;  and  Vice  grows  old  in  triumph. 
Is  it  Mercv's  hand,  that  for  the  bad  man  holds 

Life's  closing  pate  ? 

Still  passing  thence  petitionarj'  Hours 

To  woo  the  olxlurate  spirit  to  repentance  ? 

Or  would  this  chillness  tell  me,  that  there  is 

Guilt  too  enormous  to  be  duly  punished, 

Save  by  increase  of  guilt '?     The  Powers  of  Evil 

Are  jealous  claimants.     Guilt  too  hath  its  ordeal. 

And  Hell  its  own  probation  ! — Merciful  Heaven, 

Rather  than  this,  jiour  down  upon  thy  suppliant 

Disease,  and  agony,  and  comfortless  want ! 

0  send  us  forth  to  wander  on  unshelter'd  I 

Make  our  food  bitter  with  despised  tears  ! 

Let  viperous  scorn  hiss  at  us  as  we  pass  ! 

Yea,  let  us  sink  down  at  our  enemy's  gate. 

And  beg  forgiveness  and  a  morsel  of  bread  1 

With  all  the  heaviest  worldly  visitations, 

Let  the  dire  father's  curse  that  hovers  o  er  us 

Work  out  its  dread  fulfilment,  and  the  spirit 

Of  wronged  Kiuprili  be  appeased.     But  only, 

Only,  0  merciful  in  vengeance  I  lot  not 

That  plague  turn  inward  on  my  Casimir  s  soul ! 

Scare  thence  the  fiend  XiuVnUou,  a.\\^  Tc%\oT«i \v\ui 

ZAPOLYA.  461 

To  his  own  heart !     0  save  him  !     Save  my  husband  ! 

[During  the  latter  part  of  this  speech  Emerick  comes  fur^ 
wardffom  his  hiding-place.     Sarolta  seeing  him  vnth* 
out  recognizing  him. 
lu  such  a  shape  a  father's  curse  shouhl  como. 

Erne,  {advancing.)  Fear  not ! 

S(ir.  AVho  art  thou  ?     Robber  ?     Traitor  ? 

Enie.  Friend ! 

Who  in  good  hour  hath  startled  these  dark  fancies, 
Rapacious  traitors,  that  would  faiu  depose 
Joy,  love  and  beauty,  from  their  natural  thrones  : 
Those  lips,  those  angel  eyes,  that  regal  forehead. 

Sar.  Streugthen  me,  Heaven !  I  must  not  seem  afraid !    \asuie 
The  king  to-night  then  deigns  to  play  the  masker. 
What  seeks  your  majesty  ? 

Erne.  Sarolta*s  love ; 

And  Emerick's  power  lies  prostrate  at  her  feet. 

Sar.  Heaven  guard  the  sovereign's  power  from  such  debai» 
ment ! 
Far  rather.  Sire,  let  it  descend  in  vengeance 
On  the  base  villain,  on  the  faithless  slave 
Who  dared  unbar  the  doors  of  these  retirements  ! 
For  whom  ?     Has  Casimir  deserved  this  insult  ? 
0  my  misgiving  heart !     If — if — from  Heaven, 
Yet  not  from  you,  Lord  Emerick ! 

Erne.  Chiefly  from  me. 

Has  he  not  like  an  ingrate  robbed  my  court 
Of  Beauty's  star,  and  kept  my  heart  in  darkness  ? 
First  then  on  him  I  will  administer  justice — 
If  not  in  mercy,  yet  in  love  and  rapture.  \seizes  her. 

Sar,  Help!  Treason!  Help! 

Erne.  Call  louder  !     Scream  again  ! 

Here's  none  can  hear  you  ! 

Sar.  Hear  me,  hear  me,  Heaven ! 

Erne.  Nay,  why  this  rage  ?    Who  best  deserves  you  ?    Casimu, 
Emerick's  bought  implement,  the  jealous  slave 
That  mews  you  up  with  bolts  and  bars  ?  or  Emerick 
Who  proffers  you  a  throne  ?     Nay,  mine  you  shall  be. 
Hence  with  this  fond  resistance  !     Yield  ;  then  IWe 
ThJB  month  a  widow,  and  the  noU  a  queeul 

462  ZAPOLYA. 

Sar.  Yet,  yet  for  one  brief  momeEt  \stntggfimg 

Uohand  me,  1  conjure  you. 

[ She  throws  him  off,  and  rusfies  towards  a  toilet,    JSmoick 
follows,  and  as  she  takes  a  dagger^  he  grasps  il  in  her 
Erne.  Ha !  Ha !  a  dagger  ; 

A  seoinly  ornament  for  a  lady's  casket ! 
*Tis  held,  devotion  is  akin  to  love. 
But  yours  is  tragic  I     Love  in  war !     It  charms  me. 
And  makes  your  beauty  worth  a  king's  embraces ! 

{During  this  Speech  Bethlen  enters  armed.) 
Bet.  Rutiian,  forbear !     Tuni,  turn  and  front  my  8 won!  ! 
Erne,  Pish  I  who  is  this  I 

Sar.  0  sleepless  eye  of  Heaven ! 

A  blest,  a  blessed  spirit !     AMience  camest  thou  ? 
May  I  still  call  thee  Bethlen  ? 

Bet.  Ever,  lad  v. 


Your  faithful  soldier ! 

Erne.  \\\<o\Q\\i  slave  !     Depart  I 

Know'st  thou  not  me  ? 

Bet.  I  know  thou  art  a  villain 

And  coward  !     That  thy  devilish  purpose  marks  thee! 
What  else,  this  ladv  uuisl  instruct  niv  sword  I 

S(Jt'.  Monster,  retire  I    0  touch  hiin  not,  ihou  blest  oue  ' 
This  is  the  hour,  that  fiends  and  damned  spirits 
Do  walk  the  earth,  and  take  what  form  thev  list ! 
Yon  devil  hath  assumed  a  kinjjs! 

B*:f.  Usurped  it ! 

Erne.  The  king  will  play  the  devil  with  thee  indeed  I 
But  that  I  mean  to  hear  thee  howl  on  the  rack. 
I  would  debase  this  sworJ.  and  lay  ihee  prostrate. 
At  this  thy  paramour's  feet ;  then  Jrair  her  forth 
S>tained  with  adulterous  hUxnl,  and 

— mark  you.  traitress! 
Strumpeted  first,  then  turue^l  adrift  to  lieir^arY  ! 
Thou  prayedsi  lori  io«.v 

S<.ir.  Tiiou  art  Si.>  fiendish  wicked. 

That  in  thy  blasphemies  I  scarce  hear  thy  threats  ! 

B*:t.  Lady,  be  caim  I  fear  not  this  kimr  tf  the  buskin  | 
A  hag  J    Oh  laughtei  *.     A  k\\\^  iV\v3ix»?\'- 

ZAPOLYA.  468 

That  from  some  vagrant  actor's  tiriag-room, 
Hath  stolen  at  once  his  speech  and  crown ! 

Erne.  Ah  !  treason  I 

Thou  hast  been  lessoned  and  tricked  up  for  this  I 
As  surely  as  the  wax  on  thy  death-warrant 
Shall  take  the  impression  of  this  royal  signet, 
So  plain  thy  face  hath  ta*en  the  mask  of  rebel ! 

[BetfUen  seizes  Emenck's  liand  atid  eagerly  observes  the 

Bet.  It  must  be  so  !     Tis  e'en  tho  counterpart  J 
But  with  a  foul  usurping  cipher  on  it ! 
The  light  hath  flashed  from  Heaven,  and  I  must  fullow  it ! 

0  curst  usurper  !     0  thou  brother-murderer  ! 
That  mad'st  a  star-bright  queen  a  fugitive  widow ! 
Who  fill's t  the  land  with  curses,  being  thyself 
All  curses  iu  one  tyrant  I  see  and  tremble  ! 

This  is  Kiuprili's  sword  that  now  hangs  o'er  thee  1 
Kiuprili's  blasting  curse,  that  from  its  point 
Shoots  lightnings  at  thee.     Hark !  in  Andreas'  name. 
Heir  of  his  vengeance,  hell-hound  !  I  defy  thee. 

[  They  fight,  and  just  as  Emerick  is  disarmed,  in  rush 
Casimir,  Old  BaUwry,  and  attendants.      Casimir 
runs  in  between  the  conibatants,  and  jMrts  them  ;  in 
tlie  struggle  Bethlcn's  sword  is  thrown  down. 
Cas.  The  king  disarmed  too  by  a  stranger  !     Speak ! 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

Erne,  Deceived,  dishonored  lord  ' 

Ask  thou  yon  fair  adultress !     She  will  tell  thee 
A  tale,  which  would'st  thou  be  both  dupe  and  traitor 
Thou  wilt  believe  against  thy  friend  and  sovereign ! 
Thou  art  present  now,  and  a  friend's  duty  ceases  : 
Tc  thine  own  justice  leave  I  thine  own  wrongs. 
Of  half  thy  vengeance,  I  perforce  must  rob  thee, 
For  that  the  sovereign  claims.     To  thy  allegiance 

1  now  commit  this  traitor  and  assassin. 

[tlte?i  to  the  Attendants. 

Hence  with  him  to  the  dungeon  !  and  to-morrow, 

Kre  the  sun  rises, — Hark  !  your  heads  or  his  1 

Bet.  Can  Hell  work  miracles  to  mock  Heaven's  justice  1 
Erne.  Who  Bpeaka  in  him  dies !    The  UaVXoi  X\va\.\kA&\£L«QAtf2^ 

164  ZAPOLTA. 

His  king,  must  not  poUute  the  breathing  air. 
Even  with  a  word  ! 

Cos.  (to  Bathory.)  Hence  with  hiin  to  the  dungeon ! 

{Exit  Bethlen,  hurried  offhy  Bathory  and  AitemUmti 

Erne.  We  hunt  to-morrow  in  your  upland  forest : 
Thou  {tD  Casimir)  wilt  attend  us ;  and  wilt  then  explain 
This  sudden  and  most  fortunate  arrival. 

[Exit  Emerick;  Manent  Casimir  and  Sarclta, 

Sar.  My  lord !  my  husband !  look  whose  sword  lies  yonder ! 
It  is  -Kiuprili's,  Casimir ;  'tis  thy  father's ! 
And  wielded  by  a  stripling's  arm,  it  ba£9ed, 
Yea,  fell  like  Heaven's  own  lightnings  on  that  Tarquin. 

Cos.  Hush  !  hush  ! 
I  had  detected  ere  I  lefl  the  city 
The  tyrant's  curst  intent.     Lewd,  damned  ingrate  1 
For  him  did  I  bring  down  a  father's  curse ! 
Swift,  swift  must  be  our  means !     To-morrow's  sun 
Sets  on  his  fate  or  mine  !     0  blest  Sarolta  ! 
No  other  prayer,  late  penitent,  dare  I  offer. 
But  that  thy  spotless  virtues  may  prevail 
O'er  Casimir's  crimes,  and  dread  Kiuprili's  curse  !        [Exeunt 

Scene  I. — A  glade  in  a  wood. 

Enter  Casimir  looking  anxiously  arouna. 

Cos.  This  needs  must  be  the  spot !     0,  here  he  comes  ! 

Enter  Lord  Rudolph. 

Well  met,  Lord  Rudolph  ! 

Your  whisper  was  not  lost  upon  my  ear, 
And  I  dare  trust 

L.  Riid.  Enoujrh  !  the  time  is  precious  ! 

You  left  Temeswar  late  on  yester-eve  ? 
And  sojourned  there  some  hours  ? 

Cas.  I  did  so  ! 

L.  Rud.  Heard  you 

Aupht  of  a  hunt  preparing  ? 

Cas.  Yes  ;  and  met 

The  assembled  huntsmen  \ 

ZAPOLYA.  466 

L.  Rud.  Was  there  no  word  given  ? 

Cos.  The  word  for  ine  was  this  : — The  royal  Leopard 
Chases  thy  milk-white  dedicated  Hind. 

L.  Rud,  Your  answer  ? 

Cas.  As  the  word  proves  false  or  truo 

Will  Casimir  cross  the  hunt,  or  join  the  huntsmen  I 

L.  Rud.  The  event  redeemed  their  pledge  ? 

Cas.  It  did,  and  therefore 

Have  I  sent  back  both  pledge  and  invitation. 
The  spotless  Hind  hath  fled  to  them  for  shelter, 
And  bears  with  her  my  seal  of  fellowship  ! 

[They  take  hands, 

L.  Rud.  But  Emerick  !  how  when  you  reported  to  him 
Sarolta's  disappearance,  and  the  flight 
Of  Bethlen  with  his  guards  ? 

Ciis.  0,  ho  received  it 

As  evidence  of  their  mutual  guilt.     In  fine. 
With  cozening  warmth  condoled  with,  and  dismissed  me 

L.  Rud.     I  entered  as  the  door  was  closing  on  you  : 
His  eye  was  fixed,  yet  seemed  to  follow  you, — 
With  such  a  look  of  hate,  and  scorn  and  triumph, 
As  if  he  had  you  in  the  toils  already. 
And  were  then  choosing  where  to  stab  you  first. 
But  hush  !  draw  back  ! 

Cas,  This  nook  is  at  the  furthest 

From  any  beaten  track. 

L.  Rud.  There  !  mark  them  ! 

[Points  to  where  Laska  and  Pestalutz  cross  the  stage 

Cas.  Laska ! 

L.  Rud.  One  of  the  two  I  recognized  this  morning  , 
Flis  name  is  Pestalutz  :  a  trusty  rufllian. 
Whose  face  is  prologue  still  to  some  dark  murder. 
Beware  no  stratagem,  no  trick  of  message, 
Dispart  you  from  your  servants. 

Cas.  (aside)  I  deserve  it. 

The  comrade  of  that  ruflian  is  my  servant : 
The  one  I  trusted  most  and  most  preferred. 
But  we  must  part.     What  makes  the  king  so  late  ? 
It  was  his  wont  to  be  an  early  stirrer. 

L.  Rud.  Au4  \\\ft  lutLva  -^kJ^cpj 

466  ZAPOLTA. 

To  enthral  the  sluggard  nature  in  ourBelves 
Is,  in  good  truth,  the  better  half  of  the  aeeret 
To  enthral  the  world  :  for  the  will  governs  all. 
See  the  sky  lowers  !  the  cross-winds  wa3^aidly 
Chase  the  fantastic  masses  of  the  clouds 
With  a  wild  mockery  of  the  coming  hunt ! 

Cos.  Mark  yonder  mass !  I  make  it  wear  the  shape 
Of  a  huge  ram  that  butts  with  head  depressed. 

L.  Rud.  (sijniling.)  Belike,  some  stray  sheep  of  the  oozy  flock 
\Miich,  if  bards  lie  not,  the  sea-shepherds  tend, 
Glaucus  or  Proteus.     But  my  fancy  shapes  it 
A  monster  couchant  on  a  rocky  shelf 

Cas.  Mark  too  the  edges  of  the  lurid  mass — 
Restless,  as  if  some  idly- vexing  Sprite, 
On  swift  wing  coasting  by,  with  tetchy  hand 
Plucked  at  the  ringlets  of  the  vaporous  fleece. 
These  are  sure  signs  of  conflict  nigh  at  hand. 
And  elemental  war ! 

[A  sins^le  trumpet  Jieard  at  some  distance. 

L.  Rud.  That  single  blast 

Announces  that  the  tyrant's  pawing  courser 
Neighs  at  the  gate.  [  Trumpetx 

Hark  I  now  the  king  comes  forth  ! 
For  ever  'midst  this  crash  of  horns  and  clarions 
He  mounts  his  steed,  which  proudly  rears  an  end 
While  he  looks  round  at  ease,  and  scans  the  crowd. 
Vain  of  his  stately  form  and  horsemanship  I 
I  must  away !  my  absence  may  be  noticed. 

Cas.  Oft  as  thou  canst,  essav  to  lead  the  hunt 
Hard  by  the  forest-skirts  ;  and  ere  hi<rh  noon 
Expect  our  sworn  confederates  from  Temeswar. 
I  trust,  ere  yet  this  clouded  sun  slo})es  westward. 
That  Emericks  death,  or  Casimir's,  will  appease 
The  manes  of  Zapolya  and  Kiuprili  I  [Exit  Rudo/ph 

The  traitor,  Laska  ! 

And  yet  Sarolta,  simple,  inexperienced, 

Could  see  him  as  he  was,  and  often  warned  me. 

Whence  learned  she  this  ? — 0  she  was  innocent  I 

And  to  be  innocent  is  nature's  wisdom ! 

The  Uedge-dove  knows  the  piowXetft  o^  vVe  ^\i. 

ZAPOLYA.  467 

Feared  soon  as  seen;  and  flutters  back  to  shelter. 

And  the  young  steed  recoils  upon  his  haunches, 

The  never-yet-seen  adder's  hiss  first  heard. 

0  surer  than  suspicion's  hundred  eyes 

Is  that  fine  sense,  which  to  the  pure  in  heart, 

By  mere  oppugnancy  of  their  own  goodness, 

Reveals  the  approach  of  evil.     Casimir  I 

)  fool !  0  parricide  !  through  yon  wood  didst,  thou. 

With  fire  and  sword,  pursue  a  patriot  father, 

A  widow  and  an  orphan.     Dar'st  thou  then, 

(Curse-laden  wretch)  put  forth  these  hands  to  raise 

The  ark,  all  sacred,  of  thy  country's  cause  ? 

Look  down  in  pity  on  thy  son,  Kiuprili ! 

And  let  this  deep  abhorrence  of  his  crime, 

Unstained  with  selfish  fears,  be  his  atonement ! 

0  strengthen  him  to  nobler  compensation 

In  the  deliverance  of  his  bleeding  country  !        [Exit  Casimir, 

Scene  cJuinges  to  the  mouth  of  a  Cavern  as  in  Act  II, 
Zajwlya  arid  Glycine  discovered. 

Zap.  Our  friend  is  gone  to  seek  some  safer  cave  : 
Do  not  then  leave  me  long  alone.  Glycine  I 
Having  enjoyed  thy  commune,  loneliness, 
That  but  oppressed  me  hitherto,  now  scares. 

Gly.  I  shall  know  Bethlen  at  the  furthest  distance. 
And  the  same  moment  I  descry  him,  lady, 

1  will  return  to  you.  [Exit  Glycine, 

Enter  Old  Batlwryy  speaking  as  he  enters 

O.  Bat.  Who  hears  ?  a  friend  ! 

k  messenger  from  him  who  bears  the  signet ! 

Zap.  He  hath  the  watchword  ! — Art  thou  not  Bathory  ? 

O.  Bat.  0  noble  lady  I  greetings  from  your  son  ! 

[Bathory  kneels 

Zap,  Rise  !  rise  !  Or  shall  I  rather  kneel  beside  thee, 
\  nd  call  down  blessings  from  the  wealth  of  Heaven 
Upon  thy  honored  head  ?     When  thou  last  saw'st  me 
I  would  full  fain  have  knelt  to  thee,  and  could  not, 
Thou  dear  old  man !     How  o(l  since  then  in  dreams 
Have  I  done  worship  to  thee,  as  an  angel 
Bearing  my  beJpleaa  babe  upon  thy  win^\ 

468  ZAPOLTA. 

O,  Bat.  0  he  was  bom  to  honor !    Gallant  deeds 
And  perilous  hath  he  wrought  since  yester-eve. 
Now  from  Temeswar  (for  to  him  was  trusted 
A  life,  save  thine,  the  dearest)  he  hastes  hither — 

Zap.  Lady  Sarolta  mean'st  thou  ? 

O.  Bat.  She  is  sale. 

The  royal  brute  hath  overleapt  his  prey. 
And  when  he  turned,  a  sworded  Virtue  faced  him. 
My  own  brave  boy — 0  pardon,  noble  lady  1 
Your  son 

Zap.  Hark!  Is  it  he  ? 

O,  Bat.  I  hear  a  voice 

Too  hoarse  for  Bethlen's  !     'Twas  his  scheme  and  hope. 
Long  ere  the  hunters  could  approach  the  forest 
To  have  led  you  hence. — ^Retire. 

Zap.  0  life  of  terrors 

O.  Bat.  In  the  cave's  mouth  we  have  such  'vantage  ground 
That  even  this  old  arm — 

[Exeunt  Zajx)h/a  and  Bathory  into  the  Cave.      Enter 
Laska  and  Pestahttz. 

Las.  Not  a  step  further  ! 

Pes.  Dastard  I  was  this  your  promise  to  the  king  ? 

Las.  I  have  fulfilled  his  orders.     Have  walked  with  you 
As  with  a  friend — have  |K)inted  out  Lord  Casimir — 
And  now  I  leave  you  to  take  care  of  him. 
For  the  kinpr's  purposes  are  doubtless  friendly. 

Pes.  Be  on  your  guard,  man  I 

Ltas.  Ha  !  what  now  ? 

Fes.  Behind  you  ! 

'Twas  one  of  Satan's  imps,  that  grinned  and  threatened  you 
For  your  most  impudent  hope  to  cheat  his  master  I 

Las.  Pshaw  I  What,  you  think  'tis  fear  that  makes  me  leave  you  ? 

Pes.  Is't  not  enough  to  play  the  knave  to  others. 
But  thou  must  lie  to  thine  own  heart  ? 

Las.  Friend  I  Laska  will  be  found  at  his  own  post. 
Watching  elsewhere  lor  the  king  s  interest. 
There's  a  rank  plot  that  La:^ka  must  hunt  down, 
'Twixt  Bethlen  and  Glycine  I 

Pes.  What  I  the  girl 

Whom  Jiflska  saw  the  wai-wo\f  leax  \vl  i^veces  t 

ZAPOLYA.  469 

Las.  Well  !     Take  my  arms  I     Hark !    should  your  javelin 
fail  you, 
These  points  are  tipt  with  veuom. 

[seeing  Glycine  toitliout. 
By  Heaven  !  Glycine  ! 
Now  as  you  love  the  king,  help  me  to  seize  her  ! 

[  They  run  out  after  Glycine. 
Enter  Batliory  from  tlie  Cavern. 
O.  Bat,  Rest,  lady,  rest !  I  feel  in  every  sinew 
A  young  man's  strength  returning !  Which  way  went  they  ? 
The  shriek  came  thence. 

Enter  Glycine. 
Oly.  Ha  I  weapons  here  ?     Then  Bethlcn,  thy  Glycine 
Will  die  with  thee  or  save  thee  ! 

[Site  seizes  tJiem  and  rusJies  out.     Bathory  foUotoing. 

Music,  and  peasants  with  hunting  spears  cross  the  stage,  Sinn 

trig  chorally. 


Up,  up  !  ye  dames,  ye  lasses  gay ! 
To  the  meadows  trip  away. 
'Tis  you  must  tend  the  flocks  this  morn. 
And  scare  the  small  hirds  from  the  corn. 
Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay : 

For  the  shepherds  must  go 

With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 


Leave  the  hearth  and  leave  the  house 
To  the  cricket  and  the  mouse  : 
Find  grannam  out  a  sunny  seat. 
With  babe  and  lambkin  at  her  feet. 
Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay  : 

For  the  shepherds  must  go 

With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 

[Exeunt  Huntsmen. 

Re-enter  Batlwry,  Betlden,  and  Glycine. 
Gly.  And  now  once  more  a  woman 

470  ZAPOLTA. 

BeL  Was  it  then 

That  timid  eye,  was  it  those  maiden  hands 
That  sped  the  shaft,  which  saved  me  and  ayenged  me  ? 

O.  Bat.  *Twas  as  a  vision  blazoned  on  a  cloud 
By  lightning,  shaped  into  a  passionate  scheme 
Of  life  and  death  !  I  saw  the  traitor,  Laska, 
Stoop  and  snatch  up  the  javelin  of  his  comrade  ; 
The  point  was  at  your  back,  when  her  shaft  reached  bim. 
The  coward  turned,  and  at  the  self-same  instant 
The  braver  villain  fell  beneath  your  sword. 

Enter  Zapolya, 

Zap.  Bethlen  !  my  child  !  and  safe  too ! 

Bet.  Mother !  dneen  ! 

Royal  Zapolya  !  name  me  Andreas  ! 
Nor  blame  thy  son,  if  being  a  king,  he  yet 
Hath  made  his  own  arm  minister  of  his  justice. 
So  do  the  gods  who  lanch  the  thunderbolt ! 

Zap.  0  Raab  Kiuprili  I  Friend  I  Protector !  Guide ! 
In  vain  we  trcnclied  the  altar  round  with  waters, 
A  flash  from  Heaven  hath  touched  the  hidden  incense-— 

Bet.  And  that  majestic  form  that  stood  beside  thee 
Was  Raab  Kiuprili  I 

Zap.  It  was  Raab  Kiuprili : 

As  sure  as  thou  art  Andreas,  and  the  king. 

O.  But.  Hail  Andreas  I  hail  my  king  ! 

Afid.  Stop,  thou  revered  one. 

Lest  we  ofiend  the  jealouf  destinies 
By  shouts  ere  victor}'.     Deem  it  then  thy  duty 
To  pay  this  homage,  when  'tis  mine  to  claim  it. 

Gly.  Accept  thine  handmaids  service  !  [knedifig 

Zap.  Raise  her,  son  I 

0  raise  her  to  thine  arms!  she  saved  thy  lite, 
And  through  her  love  for  thee,  she  saved  thy  mother's  I 
Hereafter  thou  shalt  know,  that  this  dear  maid 
Hath  other  and  hereditary  claims 
Upon  thy  heart,  and  with  Heaven-guarded  instinct 
But  carried  on  the  work  her  sire  began  I 

And.  Dear  maid  !  more  dear  thou  canst  not  be  I  the  rest 
Shall  make  my  love  religion.     Haste  we  hence  : 
For  as  I  reached  the  skirls  of  vVvw  Yv\^\\  fox^v. 

ZAPOLYA.  471 

T  heai^  the  noise  and  uproar  of  the  chase, 
Doubling  its  echoes  from  the  mountain  foot. 

Oly.  Hark  !  sure  the  hunt  approaches. 

[kom  without  and  afterwards  distant  thunder. 

Zap.  0  Kiuprili  \ 

O.  Bat.  The  demon-hunters  of  the  middle  air 
Are  in  full  cry,  and  scare  with  arrowy  lire 
The  guilty  I  Hark !  now  here,  now  there,  a  horn 
•Swells  singly  with  irregular  blast !  the  tempest 
Has  scattered  them  !  [Horns  at  a  distance. 

Zap.  0  Heavens  !  where  slays  Kiuprili  ? 

O.  Bat.  The  wood  will  bo  surrounded  I  leave  me  here. 

And.  My  mother  !  let  me  see  thee  once  iu  safety, 
I  too  will  hasten  back,  with  lightning's  speed. 
To  seek  the  hero  I 

O.  Bat.  Haste  !  my  life  upon  it 

ril  guide  him  safe. 

And.  (thunder.)  Ha  !  what  a  crash  was  there  I 
Heaven  seems  to  claim  a  mightier  criminal 
Than  yon  vile  subaltern. 

Zap.  Your  behest,  High  powers, 

Lo,  I  obey  !  to  the  appointed  spirit. 
That  hath  so  long  kept  watch  round  this  drear  cavern, 
In  fervent  faith,  Kiuprili,  I  intrust  thee ! 

[Exeufit  Zapoii/a,  Andreas^  and  Glycine, 

O.  Bat.  Yon  bleeding  corse  may  work  us  mischief  still : 
Once  seen,  'twill  rouse  alarm  and  crowd  the  hunt 
From  all  parts  towards  this  spot.     Stript  of  its  armor, 
I'll  drag  it  hither.  [Exit  Lathary. 

[Several  Hunters  cross  the  Stage 
Enter  Kiuprili. 

R.  Kiu.  {throtving  off  his  disguise.)  Since  Heaven  alone  can 
save  me.  Heaven  alone 
Shall  be  my  trust. 

Haste !  haste !  Zapolya,  flee  ! 
Cxone  I  Sfized  perhaps  ?  Oh  no,  let  me  not  perish 
Despairing  of  Heaven's  justice  !  Faint,  disarmed, 
Each  sinew  powerless  ;  senseless  rock,  sustain  ma ! 
Thou  art  parcel  of  my  native  land. 

A  sword  \ 

472  ZAPOLTA. 

Ha  !  and  m}  sword  !  Zapolya  hath  escaped. 
The  murderers  are  baffled,  and  there  lives 
An  Andreas  to  avenge  Kiuprili'a  fall ! — 
There  was  a  time,  when  this  dear  sword  did  flash 
As  dreadful  as  the  storm-fire  from  mine  arm — 
I  can  scarce  raise  it  now — yet  come,  fell  tyrant 
And  bring  with  thee  my  shame  and  bitter  anguish. 
To  end  his  work  and  thine !  Kiuprili  now 
Con  take  the  death-blow  as  a  soldier  should. 

Be-enter  Bathory,  tcith  Uie  dead  body  of  I^estalutz. 

O.  Bat.  Poor  tool  and  victim  of  another's  guilt  I 
Thou  follow 'st  heavily :  a  reluclaut  weight ! 
Good  truth,  it  is  an  undeserved  honor 
That  in  Zapolya  and  Kiuprili*s  cave 
A  wretch  like  thee  should  find  a  burial-place. 
Tis  he  ! — In  Andreas'  and  Zapolya's  name 
Follow  me,  reverend  form  I  Thou  neeil'st  not  speak. 
For  thou  canst  be  no  other  than  Kiuprili  I 

Kill.  And  are  they  sale  ?  [Noise  trithout. 

O.  Bat.  Conceal  yourself,  my  lord  I 

I  will  mislead  them  I 

Kiu.  Is  Zapolya  safe  ? 

O.  Bat.  I  doubt  it  not ;  but  haste,  haste,  I  conjure  you  ! 

Enter  Caaimir. 

Cas.  Monster ! 

Thou  shalt  not  now  escape  me  ! 

O.  Bat.  Stop,  lord  Casimir  I 

It  is  no  monster. 

Cas.  Art  thou  too  a  traitor  ? 

Is  this  the  place  where  Emerick's  murderers  lurk  ? 
Say  where  is  he  that,  tricked  iu  this  disjruiso, 
First  lured  me  on,  then  soured  my  dastard  followers  ? 
Thou  must  have  seen  him.     Sav  where  is  th'  assat^siu  ? 

O.  Bat.  There  lies  the  assassin  !  slain  by  that  same  sword 
That  was  descending  on  his  curst  employer. 
When  entering  thou  beheld'st  Sarolta  rescued  ! 

Cas.  Strange  providence !  what  then  was  he  who  fled  me  'if 
Thy  looks  speak  fearful  things  !  Whither,  old  man  I 
Would  thy  hand  point  me  ? 

O.  Bat.  Cas\ia\T,  Vo  v\\^  ^a.>\vv2x. 

ZAPOLYA.  473 

C<is.  Tiie  curse  I  the  curse  !  Open  and  swallow  me, 
Unsteady  earth  I  Fall,  dizzy  rocks !  and  hide  mo » 

O.  Bat,  Speak,  speak,  my  lord  ! 

Kiu.  Bid  him  fulfil  his  work  ! 

Cas.  Thou  art  Heaven's  inmiediate  minister,  dread  spirit  I 
O  for  sweet  mercy,  take  some  other  form, 
And  save  me  from  perdition  and  despair ! 

O.  Bat.  He  lives ! 

Cas.  Lives !  a  father's  curse  can  never  die  I 

Kiu.  0  Casimir  I  Casimir  ! 

O.  Bat.  Look !  he  doth  forgive  j'ou  ! 

Hark  !  'tis  the  tyrant's  voice. 

[Emerick's  voice  tailhout. 

Cas.  I  kneel,  1  kneel ! 

Ketract  thy  curse  !  0,  by  my  mother's  ashes, 
Have  pity  on  thy  self  abhorring  child  ! 
If  not  for  me,  yet  for  my  innocent  wife, 
Yet  for  my  country's  sake,  give  my  arm  strength, 
Permitting  me  again  to  call  thee  father ! 

Kiu.  Son,  I  forgive  thee  I  Take  thy  father's  sword  ; 
When  thou  shalt  Hit  it  in  thy  country's  cause. 
In  that  same  instant  doth  thy  father  bless  thee ! 

Enter  Emerick. 

Erne.  Fools  I  Cowards  !  follow — or  by  Hell  I'll  make  you 
Find  reason  to  fear  Emerick,  more  than  all 
The  mummer-fiends  that  ever  masqueraded 
As  gods  or  wood-nymphs  ! — 

Ha  !  'tis  don    then  ! 
Our  necessary  villain  hath  proved  faithful, 
And  there  lies  Casimir,  and  our  last  fears  ! 

Well  !— Aye,  well  ! 

And  is  it  not  well  ?     For  though  grafted  on  :  ', 
And  filled  too  with  our  sap,  the  deadly  power 
Of  the  parent  poison-tree  lurked  in  its  fibres  : 
There  was  too  much  of  Haab  Kiuprili  in  him 
The  old  enemy  looked  at  me  in  his  face, 
E'en  when  his  words  did  flatter  me  with  duty. 

Enter  Casimir  and  Bathary. 

O.  Bat.  {aside.)  This  way  they  come  ! 

474  ZAFOLTA. 

Cas.  (aside.)  Hold  them  in  check  awhile. 
The  path  is  narrow  !     Rudolph  will  assist  thee. 

Eme.  (abide.)  And  ere  I  nng  the  alarm  of  my  aonow, 
ril  scan  that  face  once  more,  and  murmur — Here 
Lies  Casimir,  and  last  of  the  Kiuprilis ! 
Hell :  His  Pestalutz  ! 

Cas.  (coming  for icard.)  Yes,  thou  ingrate  Emerick ! 
'Tis  Pestalutz  I  'tis  thy  trusy  murderer  I 
To  quell  thee  morC;  see  Raab  Kiuprili*s  sword  ! 

Eme.  Curses  on  it,  and  thee  !     Think'st  thou  that  petty  omen 
Dare  whisper  fear  to  Emerick's  destiny  ? 
Ho  I  Treason !  Treason  I 

Cas.  Then  have  at  thee,  tyrant ! 

{They  fight,     Emerick  falh, 

Eme.  Betrayed  and  baffled 
By  mine  own  tool ! Oh  I  \diet. 

Cas.  Hear,  hear,  my  father  I 

Thou  shouldst  have  witnessed  thine  own  deed.     O  father, 
Wake  from  that  envious  swoon  I     The  tvrant*8  fallen  : 
Thy  sword  hath  coii([iiered  I     As  I  lifted  it 
Thy  blessing  did  indeed  descend  upon  me, 
Dislodging  the  dread  curse.     It  flew  forth  from  rne 
And  lighted  on  the  tyrant ! 

Enter  llufhlpli,  Bathonj,  and  Attendants. 

Rud.  and  Bat.  Friends  !  friends  to  Casimir. 

Cds.  Rejoice,  lUyrians  !  the  usurper's  fallen. 

Rud.  So  perish  tyrants  I  so  end  usurpation  I 

Cas.  Bear  hence  the  body,  and  move  slowly  on  ! 

One  moment 

Devoted  to  a  joy,  that  bears  no  witness, 
I  follow  you,  and  we  will  greet  our  countrj'mcn 
With  the  two  best  and  fullest  gills  of  heaven — 
A  tyrant  fallen,  a  patriot  chief  restored  I 

[Casimir  enters  tfie  Cavern. 

Scene,  Chamber  in  Casimir  s  Castle.     Confederates  discovered 

1st  Cofi.  It  can  not  but  succeed,  friends.     From  this  palace 
E'en  to  the  wood,  our  messengers  are  posted. 
With  such  short  interspace,  that  fast  as  soinid 
Can  travel  to  us.  we  shall  Yeatu  \\ve  ^ve\\\.\ 

ZAPOLYA.  476 

Enter  another  Confederale, 
^Tiat  tidings  from  Temeawar  ? 

2d  Con.  With  one  voice 

Th*  assembled  chieflains  have  deposed  the  tyrant ; 
He  is  proclaimed  the  public  enemy, 
And  the  protection  of  the  law  withdrawn. 

\st  Con.  Just  doom  for  him,  who  governs  without  law! 
Is  it  known  on  whom  the  sovereignty  will  fall  ? 

2d  Con.  Nothing  is  yet  decided  :  but  report 
Points  to  Lord  Casimir.     The  grateful  memory 

Of  his  renowned  father 

Enter  Sarolta. 

Hail  to  Sarolta ! 

Sar.  Confederate  friends  !  I  bring  to  you  a  joy 
Worthy  your  noble  cause  1     Kiuprili  lives, 
And  from  his  obscure  exile  hath  returned 
To  bless  our  couutry.     More  and  greater  tidings 
Might  I  disclose  ;  but  that  a  woman's  voice 
Would  mar  the  wondrous  tale.     Wait  we  for  him, 
The  partner  of  the  glory — Raab  Kiuprili  ; 
For  he  alone  is  worthy  to  announce  it. 

[Shouts  (?/"  Kiuprili,  Kiuprili,"  awe/  *•  The  Tyrant's  fallen," 
witlumt.  Enter  Kiuprili^  Casimir,  Rudolph,  Ba^ 
thory,  and  Attendants. 

R.  Kiu.  Spare  yet  your  joy,  my  friends  I     A  higher  waits  you  : 
Behold,  your  Clueen ! 

Enter  Zapolya  a?ul  Andreas  royally  attired  with  Glycine, 

Con.  Comes  she  i'rom  heaven  to  bless  us  ? 

Otlier  Con.  It  is !  it  is ! 

Zap.  Heaven's  work  of  grace  is  full  ^ 

Kiuprili,  thou  art  safe  ! 

R.  Kiu.  Royal  Zapolya ! 

To  the  heavenly  powers  pay  we  our  duty  first ; 
Who  not  alone  preserved  thee,  but  ibr  thee 
And  for  our  country,  the  one  precious  branch 
Of  Andreas'  royal  house.     0  countrymen, 
Beholl  your  King  !     And  thank  our  country's  genius, 
That  the  same  means  which  have  preserved  our  sovereiga 
Have  likewise  reared  him  worthier  of  the  throne 
Bv  virtue  than  by  birth.     The  undoubted  ytooV^ 

<78  ZAPOLTA. 

Fledged  by  his  royal  mother,  tnd  thii  tM  man, 
(Whose  name  henceforth  be  dear  to  all  lUyiiaai)    - 
We  baate  to  Uy  beTore  the  SMembled  oonncil. 

AU.  Hail,  Andreas !  Hail,  Illyria'a  li^tfal  Uiig  I 

And.  Sapported  tbna,  O  frieoda !  'twme  cowudiea 
Unworthy  of  a  royal  birth,  to  Bhrink 
From  the  appointed  charge.     Yet,  while  we  wait 
The  awfnl  SBDCtion  of  convened  Itlyria, 
In  this  brief  while,  0  let  me  feel  myself 
The  child,  tbe  friend,  the  debtor  ! — Heroie  moUiet ! 
Bat  what  can  breath  add  to  that  sacred  name  T 
Kiuprili  I  gift  of  Providence,  to  teach  na 
That  loyaltyiB  but  tbe  public  form 
Of  the  Bublimest  friendehip,  let  my  yonth 
Olimb  roond  thee,  as  the  vine  around  its  elm  ; 
Thou  my  support  and  I  thy  faithful  fruitage. 
My  heart  ia  tiiU,  and  these  poor  words  express  Bol, 
They  are  but  an  art  to  check  its  overswelling. 
Bathory !  shrink  not  from  my  filial  arms  I 
Now,  and  from  henceforth  thou  shalt  not  forlnd  m« 
To  call  thee  father!     And  dure  1  forget 
The  powerful  intercession  of  thy  virtue. 
Lady  Sarolta  !     Still  acknowledge  me 
Tfay  faithful  soldier!— But  what  invocation 
Shall  my  full  soul  address  to  thee.  Glycine  ? 
Thou  Bword  that  leap'dat  forth  from  a  bed  of  rosea, — 
Thou  falcon -hearted  dove  ! 

Zap.  Hear  that  from  me,  son ! 

Pot  ere  she  UvvA,  her  father  snved  thy  life, 
Thine,  and  thy  fugitive  mother's  I 

Cos.  Chef  Ragotai '. 

0  shame  upon  my  head  !  I  would  have  given  her 
To  a  base  slave  ! 

Zap.  Heaven  overruled  thy  purpose, 

And  sent  an  angel  to  thy  houie  to  guard  her  ! 
Thou  precious  bark  !  freighted  with  all  our  treasaTes ! 
The  sports  of  tempests,  and  yet  ne'ct  the  victim. 
How  many  may  claim  salvage  in  thee '. 

Take  her,  eon! 



A.  queen  that  brings  with  her  a  richer  dowry 
Than  orient  kings  can  give  ! 

Sar.  A  banquet  waits  I — 

On  this  auspicious  day,  for  some  few  hours 
I  claim  to  be  your  hostess.     Scenes  so  awful 
With  flashing  light,  force  wisdom  on  us  all  ! 
£*en  women  at  the  distafl*  hence  may  sec, 
That  bad  men  may  rebel,  but  ne'er  be  free  ; 
May  whisper,  when  the  waves  of  faction  foam, 
None  love  their  country,  but  who  love  their  home ; 
Nor  freedom  can  with  those  alone  abide. 
Who  wear  the  golden  chain,  with  honest  pride, 
Of  love  and  duty,  at  their  own  fire-side  : 
While  road  ambition  ever  doth  caress 
Its  own  sure  fate,  in  its  own  restlessnoes  I 





under  Wallfmlein, 


VtLLEsmmti,  Jtakt  of  FritJlamd,  OeueralUtima  of  On  Imptrial  Ana  if. 

the  Thirlg  Year/  War. 

ILo.  PiocoLOxm,  flit  tiim,  Culonel  of  a  Seyiment  tf  Cuirmnitn. 
CotniT  TrnUT,  (A<  Commaitdtr  of  mtral  Segattnit,  and   PrrfAtr  i»  f  «■ 

of  WaUentleiH. 
lixo,  fUU-Uartkat.  Walltrulein;  ConjUaml. 
boLA!'!.  Oeneral  of  Ihe  Croait. 
Bdtleb,  an  /i-uAman,  Onmiiandrr  of  a  Ra/iimait  ofDrmpeoma, 

ToTENBiACB,        "l 

Goto       r 


Nel-basx,  Captain  of  Caealri/.  AiJ-Je-Camp  to  Terttkg. 
The  War  Commiuiomr,  Von  Qlestenbeku.  Imperial  Jua^ 
Oexibai.  Wkaxgel,  Sitejiii  Eneai/. 
Battibieb  Sesi,  Aitrolo'jtr. 

Dl-CHSHS  OF  t'BIEDLAM.,     IKifV  of  WotUntlrin. 

Tbeela.  her  Daughter.  Prineea  of  FriedUnd. 
Thk  CocsTtsa  TtaiSKY.  SiHer  of  the  Duchrii. 


Several  Colonels  and  Gene&als. 
Pages  and  AiTESUA-vra  br'anging  la  Wallemleta, 
Attesdaxib  and  Uonoisw  beiingiBg  to  Tertsky. 
The  JLasteb  of  the  Cell.vb  to  Oiant  Terlakf 
Valkt  de  CBAMBttK  of  Counl  Pietoloatini. 



The  two  Dramas,  Piccoloxini,  or  the  first  part  of  Wallenstein,  and 
Wallenstein,  are  introduced  ia  the  original  manuscript  by  a  prelude  in  one 
Act,  entitled  Wallenstein's  Camp.  This  is  written  in  rhyme,  and  in  nine 
Bvlluble  verse,  in  the  same  lilting  metre  (if  that  cxpresdiou  may  be  per- 
mitted) with  the  second  Eclogue  of  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calendar. 

This  Prelude  possesses  a  sort  of  broad  humor,  and  is  not  deficient  in 
character ;  but  to  have  translated  it  into  prose,  or  into  any  other  metre 
than  that  of  the  original,  would  have  given  a  false  notion  both  of  its  style 
and  purport ;  to  have  translated  it  into  the  same  metre  would  have  been 
incompatible  with  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  sense  of  the  German,  from 
the  comparative  poverty  of  our  language  in  rhymes ;  and  it  would  have 
been  unadvisable  from  the  incongruity  of  those  lax  verses  with  the  present 
taste  of  the  English  Public  Schiller's  intention  seems  to  have  been  merely 
to  have  prepared  his  reader  for  the  Tragedies  by  a  lively  picture  of  the 
laxity  of  discipline,  and  the  mutinous  dispositions  of  Wallenstein's  soldiery. 
It  is  not  necessary  as  a  preliminary  explanation.  For  these  reasons  it  has 
been  thought  expedient  not  to  translate  it. 

llie  admirers  of  Schiller,  who  have  alMtracted  their  conception  of  that 
author  from  the  Robbers,  and  the  Cabal  and  Love,  plays  in  which  the  main 
interest  is  produced  by  the  excitement  of  curiosity,  and  in  which  the  curi- 
osity is  excited  by  terrible  and  extraordinary  incident,  will  not  have  perused, 
without  some  portion  of  disappointment,  the  dramas,  which  it  has  been  my 
employment  to  translate.  They  should,  however,  reflect  that  these  are  his- 
torical dramas,  taken  from  a  popular  German  history ;  that  we  must  there- 
fore judge  of  them  in  some  measure  with  the  feelings  of  Germans;  or  by 
analogy  with  the  interest  excited  in  us  by  similar  dramas  in  our  own  lan- 
guage. Few,  I  trust,  would  be  rash  or  ignorant  enough  to  compare  Schiller 
with  Shakspcare ;  yet,  merely  as  illustration,  I  would  say  that  we  should 
proceed  to  the  |)eru»al  of  W.'iUenstein,  not  from  Lear  or  Othello,  but  from 
Richard  the  Second,  or  the  three  parts  of  Henry  the  Sixth.  We  scarcely 
expect  rapidity  in  an  historical  drama ;  and  many  prolix  speeches  are  par- 
doned from  characters,  whose  names  and  actions  have  formed  the  most 
amusing  tales  of  our  early  life.  On  the  other  Imnd,  there  exist  in  thei»e 
plays  more  individual  beauties,  more  passages,  the  excellence  of  which  will 
oear  reflection,  than  in  the  former  productions  of  Schiller.  The  description 
f  the  astrological  tower,  and  the  reflections  of  iVift  "^owx\\»  \v^\^Y,Vv\v^\ 
§oXU>wit^  Jbrm  ia  ibe  origiaaii  a  fine  poom;  and  my  \.T%x\*\ft.\Ao\\  vcvvvkX.'Wsv- 

482  FBEFACS. 

been  wretched  indeed,  if  it  can  hmve  wbollj  orereknidad  llie  beratieiof  the 
•cene  in  the  first  act  of  the  first  play  between  Questenberg,  Max.  and  Oetar 
vio  Piooolomini.  If  we  except  the  scene  of  the  setting  sun  in  the  Bobben, 
I  know  of  no  [Murt  in  Schiller's  Plays  which  equals  the  whole  of  the  first 
scene  of  the  fiilh  act  of  the  concluding  play.  It  would  be  anbecoming  in 
me  to  be  more  diffuse  on  this  subject  A  translator  stands  oonneeted  with 
the  original  author  by  a  certain  law  of  subordination,  which  makes  it  more 
decorous  to  point  out  excellencies  than  defects :  indeed  he  is  not  likdr  tc 
be  a  fair  judge  of  either.  The  pleasore  or  disgust  from  his  own  labor  will 
mingle  with  the  feelings  that  arise  from  an  after-view  of  the  originaL  £r«u 
in  the  first  perusal  of  a  work  in  any  foreign  language  which  we  understand 
we  are  apt  to  attribute  to  it  more  excellence  than  it  really  possesseis  from 
^potn'  our  own  pleasurable  sense  of  difficulty  overcome  without  eSort 
Translation  of  poetry  into  poetry  is  difficult,  because  the  translator  must 
give  a  brilliancy  to  his  language  without  that  warmth  of  original  conceptioo, 
from  which  such  brilliancy  would  follow  of  its  own  accord.  But  the  trans 
lator  of  a  living  author  is  encumbered  with  additional  inoonveniencea.  If 
he  render  his  original  faithfully,  as  to  the  sense  of  eakxh.  passage,  he  most 
necessarily  destroy  a  considerable  portion  of  the  spirit ;  if  he  endeavor  to 
give  a  work  executeil  according  to  laws  of  compensation,  he  subjects  him- 
self to  imputatious  of  vauity,  or  misrepresentation.  I  have  thought  it  my 
duly  to  remain  bound  by  the  sense  of  my  original,  with  as  few  exceptima 
as  the  nature  of  the  language  rendered  possible.* 

It  was  my  intention  to  have  prefixed  a  Life  of  Wallenstein  to  this  tran«- 
latiou ;  but  I  found  that  it  must  either  have  occupied  a  space  wholly  dis- 
proportionate to  the  nature  of  the  publication,  or  have  been  merely  a 
meagre  catalogue  of  events  narrated  not  more  fully  than  they  already  are 
in  the  Play  itself.  The  recent  traDslati(»n,  likewise,  of  Schiller's  Hi£aY>Ri 
or  TUE  Thirty  Yeaus*  War  diminished  the  motives  thereto.  In  the  trans 
lation  I  endeavored  to  render  my  Author  literalltf  wherever  I  was  not  pre- 
vented by  absolute  differences  of  idiom ;  but  I  am  conscious  that  in  two  or 
three  short  passages  I  have  been  guilty  of  dilating  the  original ;  and  frtmi 
anxiety  to  give  the  full  mcaniui^,  have  weakened  the  force.  In  the  metre 
I  have  availed  nivsolf  of  no  other  liberties  than  those  which  Schiller  had 
permitted  to  himself,  except  the  occasional  breaking-up  of  the  line  by  the 
substitution  of  a  trt>chee  f.»r  an  iambus;  of  which  liberty,  so  frequent  in 

our  tragedies,  I  find  no  instance  in  these  dramas.f 


*  Orii^nally  prefixed  to  ihc  translation  of  the  second  part,  but  appamitly  as  a 
t  Orig;inally  prefixed  to  the  iraoslatioii  of  the  first  part. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — An  old  Gothic  Chamber  in  the  Council-house  ai 
Filsen,  decorated  with  colors  and  other  war  insignia. 

lUo  toith  Butler  and  Isdani. 

lllo.  Ye  have  come  late — ^but  ye  are  come  !     The  distance. 
Count  Isolan,  excuses  your  delay. 

Is^j,  Add  this  too,  that  we  come  not  empty  handed. 
At  Donauwert*  it  was  reported  to  us, 
A  Swedish  caravan  was  on  its  way 
Transporting  a  rich  cargo  of  provision, 
Almost  six  hundred  wagons.     This  my  Croats 
Plunged  down  upon  and  seized,  this  weighty  prize  ! — 
We  bring  it  hither 

lllo.  Just  in  time  to  banquet 

The  illustrious  company  assembled  here. 

But.  'Tis  all  alive  !  a  stirring  scene  here ! 

Iso.  Ay ! 

The  very  churches  are  all  full  of  soldiers. 
And  in  the  Council-house,  too,  I  observe, 

[  Casts  his  eye  round. 
You're  settled,  quite  at  home  !     "Well,  well !  we  soldiers 
Must  shifl  and  suit  us  in  what  way  we  can. 

Bio.  We  have  the  Colonels  here  of  thirty  regiments. 
You'll  find  Count  Tertsky  here,  and  Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Hinnersam, 

The  ricx)olomini,  both  son  and  father 

You'll  meet  with  many  an  unexpected  greeting 
From  many  an  old  friend  and  acquaintance.     Only 
Galas  is  wanting  still,  and  Altringer. 

But.  Expect  not  Galas. 

^  A  town  about  twelve  German  miles  IS.*^  ot  WVsi 


Illo.  {hesitating.)         How  to?     Do  yon  know 

lao.  {interruptifig  Aim.)    Max.  Piccolomini  here  ! — O  Inaf 
me  to  him. 
1  see  him  yet,  ('lis  now  ten  years  ago. 
We  were  engaged  with  Mansfeld  hard  by  De«ua) 
I  see  the  youth,  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him, 
Jjeap  his  black  war-borae  from  the  bridge  adown. 
And  toward  his  father,  then  in  extreme  peril. 
Beat  up  against  the  strong  tide  of  the  Elbe. 
The  down  waa  scarce  upon  his  chin  !     I  hear 
He  has  made  good  the  promise  of  his  youtb- 
And  the  full  hero  now  is  finished  in  him. 

Illo.  You'll  see  him  yet  ere  evening.     Ur  conducts 
The  Duchess  Friedland  hither,  and  the  Princess 
from  Karntben.     We  expect  them  here  at  noon. 

But.  Both  wife  and  daughter  does  iho  Duke  call  hither  ? 
He  crowds  in  visilanls  from  all  sides. 

/so.  Km  ! 

So  much  the  better !     I  had  framed  my  mind 
To  he>tr  of  nauglit  but  warlike  circumstance, 
or  marches,  and  attacks,  and  batteries  : 
And  lo  !    the  Duke  provides,  that  something  too 
Of  gentler  sort,  and  lovely,  should  be  present 
To  feast  our  eyes. 

2Uo.  [iclio  has  been  standing  in  tJte  attttutle  of  meilitfUion,*. 
Butler,  11  horn  he  leads  a  little  on  one  side. 
And  how  came  you  to  know 
That  the  Count  Galas  joins  us  not  ? 

But.  Because 

He  importuned  me  (o  remain  behind. 

Illo.  (iri//(  warmth.)     And  you  1 — You  hold  out  firmly  ? 
{Grasping  his  Itaml  icifh  affection.)  Koble  Butler  ! 

Bur.  AHer  the  obligation  which  the  Duke 
Had  laid  so  newly  on  me 

Illo.  I  had  forgottea 

A  pleasant  duly — M.uoK  General, 
I  wish  you  joy  ! 

Iso.  Wliat,  j-ou  mean,  of  his  regiment? 

I  hear,  too,  that  to  make  the  gia  still  sweeter. 
The  I>uke  has  given  him  ttie  \ei\  «*tne 


111  which  he  first  saw  seirice,  and  since  then, 

Worked  himself,  step  by  step,  through  each  preferment, 

From  the  ranks  upwards.     And  verily,  it  gives 

A  precedent  of  hope,  a  spur  of  action 

To  the  whole  corps,  if  once  in  their  remembrance 

An  old  deserving  soldier  makes  his  way. 

But,  I  am  perplexed  and  doubtful,  whether  or  no 
I  dare  accept  this  your  congratulation. 
The  Emperor  has  not  yet  confirmed  the  appointment. 

Iso.  Seize  it,  friend  !     Seize  it !     The  hand  which  in  that  post 
Placed  you,  is  strong  enough  to  keep  you  there, 
Spite  of  the  Emperor  and  his  Ministers. 

Bio.  Ay,  if  we  would  but  so  consider  it ! — 
If  we  would  all  of  us  consider  it  so  ! 
The  Emperor  gives  us  nothing ;  from  the  Duke 
Comes  all — whatever  we  hope,  whatever  wo  have. 

Iso.  (to  lllo.)  My  noble  brother  !   did  I  tell  you  how 
The  Duke  will  satisfy  my  creditors  ? 
Will  be  himself  my  banker  for  the  future. 
Make  me  once  more  a  creditable  man  ! — 
And  this  is  now  the  third  time,  think  of  that  I 
This  kingly-minded  man  has  rescued  me 
From  absolute  ruin,  and  restored  my  honor. 

lllo.  0  that  his  power  but  kept  pace  with  his  wishes  I 
"Why,  friend  !  he'd  give  the  whole  world  to  his  soldiers 
But  at  Vienna,  brother ! — here's  the  grievance ! — 
What  politic  schemes  do  they  not  lay  to  shorten 
His  arm,  and,  where  they  can,  to  clip  his  pinions 
Then  these  new  dainty  requisitions  !  these. 
Which  this  same  Questenberg  brings  hither  ! — 

But.  Ay, 

These  requisitions  of  the  Emperor, — 
I  too  have  heard  about  them  ;   but  I  hope 
The  Duke  will  not  draw  back  a  single  inch ! 

nio.  Not  from  his  right  most  surely,  unless  first — 
I'^rom  office ! 

But.  (shocked  and  confused.)  Know  you  aught  then  ?     You 
alarm  me. 

Iso.  {at  the  same  time  tcith  Butler ^  and.  in  a  Htirrxcd  xoxcfcX 
We  should  be  ruined  every  one  of  us  I 


nio.  No  more! 

Yonder  I  see  our  worthy  friend^  approaching 
With  the  Lieutenant-General,  Piccolomini. 

But,  (shaking  his  head  significantly,)  I  fear  we  shall  not  gu 
hence  as  we  came. 

Scene  II. — Enter  Octavio  Piccototnini  and  Questenberg. 

Oct.  {still  in  the  distance.)  Ay,  ay !  more  still !     Still  more 
new  visitors ! 
Acknowledge,  friend  !  that  never  was  a  camp, 
Which  held  at  once  so  many  heads  of  heroes. 

[Approaching  nearer . 
Welcome,  Count  Isolani ! 

Iso.  My  noble  brother, 

Even  now  am  I  arrived ;  it  had  been  else  my  duty 

Oct.  And  Colonel  Butler — trust  me,  I  rejoice 
Thus  to  renew  acquaintance  with  a  man 
Whose  worth  and  services  I  know  and  honor. 
See,  see,  my  friend  I 

There  might  we  place  at  once  before  our  eyes 
The  sum  of  war's  whole  trade  and  mystery — 

[To  Questenberg,  ^^res^w^iMg"  Butler  and  Isolani  €U  tke 
same  time  to  him. 
These  two  the  total  sum — Strength  and  Despatch. 

Ques.  {to  Octavio.)  Audio!  betwixt  them  both  experienced 

Prudence ! 
Oct.  {presenting  Queste^iberg  to  Butler  afid  Isolani.)  The 
Chamberlain  and  War-commissioner  Q^uestenbcrg, 
The  bearer  of  the  Emperor's  behests, 
The  long-tried  friend  and  patron  of  all  soldiers, 
We  honor  in  this  noble  visitor.  [  Universal  silence. 

lUo.  {moving  towards  Questenberg.)  'Tis  not  the  first  time, 
noble  Minister, 
Yon  have  shown  our  camp  this  honor. 

Ques.  Once  before 

[  stood  before  these  colors. 

lilo    Perchance,  too,  you  remember  where  that  was. 


It  was  at  Znkim*  in  Moravia,  whero 

You  did  present  yourself  on  the  part 

Of  the  Emperor,  to  supplicate  our  Duke 

That  he  would  straight  assume  the  chief  command. 

Ques.  To  supplicate?     Nay,  noble  General ! 
So  far  extended  neither  my  commission 
(At  least  to  my  own  knowledge)  nor  my  zeal. 

Illo.  "Well,  well,  then — to  compel  him,  if  you  choose. 
I  can  remember  me  right  well.  Count  Tilly 
Had  suffered  total  rout  upon  the  Lech. 
Bavaria  lay  all  open  to  the  enemy, 
Whom  there  was  nothing  to  delay  from  pressing 
Onwards  into  the  very  heart  of  Austria. 
At  that  time  you  and  Werdenberg  appeared 
Before  our  General,  storming  him  with  prayers. 
And  menacing- the  Emperor's  displeasure, 
(Jnlcss  he  took  compassion  on  this  wretchedness. 

Iso.  {steps  up  to  them.)  Yes,  yes,  'tis  comprehensible  enougL 
Wherefore  with  your  commission  of  to-day 
You  were  not  all  too  willing  to  remember 
Your  former  one. 

Ques.  Why  not.  Count  Isolan? 

No  contradiction  sure  exists  between  them. 
It  was  the  urgent  business  of  that  time 
To  snatch  Bavaria  from  her  enemy's  hand  ; 
And  my  commission  of  to-day  instructs  me 
To  free  her  from  her  good  friends  and  protectors. 

Illo.  A  worthy  office !     After  with  our  blood 
We  have  wrested  this  Bohemia  from  the  Saxon, 
To  be  swept  out  of  it  is  all  our  thanks, 
The  sole  reward  of  all  our  hard-won  victories. 

Ques.  Unless  that  wretched  land  be  doomed  to  suffer 
Only  a  change  of  evils,  it  must  be 
^reed  from  the  scourge  alike  of  friend  and  foe. 

Jllo.  What  ?  'twas  a  favorable  year  ;  the  Boors 
Can  answer  fresh  demands  already. 

Ques.                                                  Nay, 
If  you  discourse  of  herds  and  meadow-grounds 

*  A  town  not  hr  from  the  Mine-monntaint,  on  th«  Vvv^  tc3«A  ^ra«& 
/iamw  to  Pngae. 


I$o.  The  war  maintains  the  war.     Are  the  Boon  miiiocL 
The  Emperor  gains  so  many  more  new  soldiers. 

Ques.  And  is  the  poorer  by  even  so  many  subjects. 

Iso.  Poh !  we  are  all  his  subjects. 

Qucs.  Yet  with  a  difierence,  General !     The  one  nu 
With  profitable  industry  the  purse, 
The  others  are  well  skilled  to  empty  it. 
The  sword  has  made  the  Emperor  poor ;  the  plough 
Must  re>invigorate  his  resources. 

Iso,  Sure ! 

Times  are  not  vet  so  bad.     Methinks  I  see 

[Examining  with  his  eye  the  dress  and  amamenis  of 
Good  store  of  gold  that  still  remains  uncoined. 

Ques.  Thank  Heaven!  that  means  have  been  found  out  to 
Some  little  from  the  fingers  of  the  Croats. 

Illo.  There !  the  Stawata  and  the  Martini tz, 
On  whom  the  Emperor  heaps  his  gifts  and  graces. 
To  the  hearl-buniiiig  of  all  good  Bohemians — 
Those  minions  of  court  favor,  those  court  harpies, 
Who  fatten  on  the  wrecks  of  citizu^ns 

Driven  from  their  Louse  aud  home — ^who  reap  no  harvests 
Save  in  the  general  calamity — 
Who  now,  with  kingly  pomp,  insult  and  mock 
The  desolation  of  their  couutrv — tlicse, 
L#et  these,  and  such  as  these,  support  the  war, 
The  fatal  war,  which  thev  alone  enkindled ! 

But.  And  those  state-parasites,  who  have  their  feet 
So  constantly  beneath  the  Emperors  table. 
Who  can  not  let  a  benefice  fall,  but  they 
Snap  at  it  with  dog's  hunger — they,  forsooth. 
Would  ^rc  the  soMier's  bread,  and  cross  his  reckoning  I 

Iso.  My  life  long  will  it  anger  me  to  think. 
How  when  I  went  to  court  seven  years  ago, 
To  see  about  new  horses  for  our  regiment, 
How  from  one  antechamber  to  another 
They  dragged  me  on,  and  left  me  by  the  hour 
To  kick  my  heels  among  a  crowd  of  simpering 
Feast-/a(tened  slaves,  as  \{  \  YvaiiV  cots\^  \.Vv\N\vvix 


A  mendicant  suitor  for  the  crumbs  of  favor 
That  fall  beneath  their  tables.     And,  at  last, 
Whom  should  they  send  me  but  a  Capuchin  I 
Straight  I  began  to  muster  up  my  sms 
For  absolution — but  no  such  luck  for  me  f 
Tltis  was  the  man,  this  Capuchin,  with  whom 
I  was  to  treat  concerning  the  army  horses : 
And  I  was  forced  at  last  to  quit  the  field. 
The  business  unaccomplished.     Aflerwards 
The  Duke  procured  me  in  three  days,  what  I 
Could  not  obtain  in  thirty  at  Vienna. 

Qnes.    Yes,  yes!   your  travelling  bills  soon  found  their  way 
Too  well  I  know  we  have  still  accounts  to  settle. 

lllo.  War  is  a  violent  trade  :  one  can  not  always 
Finish  one's  work  by  soft  means  ;  every  trifle 
Must  not  be  blackened  into  sacrilege. 
If  we  should  wait  till  you,  in  solemn  council, 
With  due  deliberation  had  selected 
The  smallest  out  of  four-and-twenty  evils, 
r  faith  we  should  wait  long. — 

"  Dash !  and  through  with  it !" — That's  the  better  watch-word. 
Then  after  come  what  may  come.     'Tis  man's  nature 
To  make  the  best  of  a  bad  thing  once  past. 
A  bitter  and  perplexed  *•  what  shall  I  do  ?" 
Is  worse  to  man  than  worst  necessity. 

Ques.  Ay,  doubtless,  it  is  true  :  the  Duke  does  spare  us 
The  troublesome  task  of  choosing. 

But,  Yes,  the  Duke 

Cares  with  a  father's  feelings  for  his  troops  ; 
But  how  the  Emperor  feels  for  us,  we  see. 

Qaes.  Ilia  cares  and  feelings  all  ranks  share  alike, 
Nor  will  he  offer  one  up  to  another. 

Iso,  And  therefore  thrusts  he  us  into  the  deserts 
As  beasts  of  prey,  that  so  he  may  preserve 
His  dear  sheep  fattening  in  his  fields  at  home. 

Ques.  (with  a  sneer.)  Count,  this  comparison  you  make,  not  I 

But.  Why,  were  we  all  the  Court  supposes  us, 
'Twere  dangerous,  sure,  to  give  us  liberty. 

Ques.  You  have  taken  liberty — it  wa&  not  ^^eti  '^o^. 

490  THE  PIOOOLOlCnil: 

And  therefore  it  becomes  aq  argent  duty 
To  rein  it  in  with  curbs. 

Oct.  {interposing  and  addressing  Questenberg.')  ICj  noUs 

This  IB  no  more  than  a  remembnncing 

That  you  are  now  in  camp,  and  among  warriois. 

The  soldier's  boldness  coostitutefl  his  freedom. 

Could  he  act  daringly,  unless  he  dared 

Talk  even  so  ?     One  runs  into  the  other. 

The  boldness  of  this  worthy  officer,  [Pointing  to  Butler. 

Which  now  has  but  mistaken  in  its  mark, 

Preserved,  when  naught  but  boldness  coutd  preserve  it. 

To  the  Emperor  his  capital  city,  Prague, 

In  a  most  formidable  mutiny 

Of  the  whole  garrison.  [MUitanf  tniaic  at  a  distance. 

Hah  !  here  they  come  I 

Illo.   The  sentries  are  saluting  them  :  this  ugnal 
Announces  the  arrival  of  the  Duchess.  ^ 

Oct.  {to  Qitcstcnbcrg.)  Then  my  son  Mai.  too  has  returned. 
'Twas  he 
Fetched  and  attended  them  from  Kkrnthen  hither. 

/so.  {lo  Illo.)  Shall  we  not  po  in  company  to  greet  them  f 

lUa.  ^Vell,  let  us  go, — Ho  !  Colonel  Butler,  come. 

{To  Octavio. 
You'll  not  forget,  that  yet  ore  noon  we  meet 
The  noble  Envoy  at  the  General's  palace. 

[ICxcunt  all  but  Qucstenberg  and  Octario. 

ScESE  UI. — Queslenlierg  and  Octavio. 

Ques.  (irirk  signs  of  aversion  and  astonishment)  What  havo 
I  not  been  forced  to  hear,  Octavio  ! 
What  sentiments  !  what  fierce,  uncurbed  defiance  ! 
And  were  this  spirit  universal — 

Oct.  Hm ! 

You  arc  now  acquainted  with  three  fuurths  of  the  anny. 

Ques.   Where  must  we  soL'k  then  for  a  second  host 
To  have  the  custody  of  this  ?  That  Illo 
Thinks  worse,  I  fear  mc,  than  he  speaks.  And  then 
This  Butler,  too,— he  can  not  even  conceal 
The  jwsaioiutta  woikinga  ot  \iis  i\\  m\«a\\o\A. 


Oct.  Cluickness  of  temper — irritated  pride  ; 
Twos  nothing  more.     I  can  not  give  up  Butler. 
I  know  a  spell  that  will  soon  dispossess 
The  evil  spirit  in  him, 

Ques.  {walking  up  and  down  in  evident  disquiet.)  Friend 
friend ! 
0  !  this  is  worse,  far  worse,  than  we  had  sufiered 
Ourselves  to  dream  of  at  Vienna.     There 
We  saw  it  only  with  a  courtier's  eyes, 
Eyes  dazzled  hy  the  splendor  of  the  throne. 
We  had  not  seen  the  war-chief,  the  commander, 
The  man  all-powerful  in  his  camp.     Here,  here, 
'Tis  quite  another  thing. 

Here  is  no  Emperor  more — the  Duke  is  Emperor. 
Alas,  my  friend  !  alas,  my  nohle  friend  ! 
This  walk  which  you  have  ta'en  me  through  the  camp 
Strikes  my  hopes  prostrate. 

Oct.  Now  you  see  yourself 

Of  what  a  periloul  kind  the  office  is, 
Which  you  deliver  to  me  from  the  Court. 
The  least  suspicion  of  the  General 
Costs  me  my  freedom  and  my  life,  and  would 
But  hasten  his  most  desperate  enterprise. 

Ques.  Where  was  our  reason  sleeping  when  we  trusted 
This  madman  with  the  sword,  and  placed  such  power 
In  such  a  hand  ?  I  tell  you  he'll  refuse. 
Flatly  refuse,  to  obey  the  Imperial  orders. 
Friend,  he  can  do't,  and  what  he  can,  he  will. 
And  then  the  impunity  of  his  defiance — 
0  !  what  a  proclamation  of  our  weakness ! 

Oct.  D'ye  think,  too,  he  has  brought  his  wife  and  daughter 
Without  a  purpose  hither  ?     Here  in  camp  ! 
And  at  the  very  point  of  time,  in  which 
We're  arming  for  the  war  ?    That  he  has  taken 
These,  the  last  pledges  of  his  loyalty. 
Away  from  out  the  Emperor's  domains — 
This  is  no  doubtful  token  of  the  nearness 
Of  some  eruption ! 

Ques.  How  shall  we  hold  footing 

Beneath  this  tempest,  which  collecla  ilseVt 


And  threats  us  from  all  quarters  ?     The  enemy 
Of  the  empire  oa  our  borders,  now  already 
The  master  of  the  Danube,  and  still  farther, 
And  farther  stiU,  extending  every  hour  ! 
In  our  interior  the  alarum-bells 

Of  insurrection — peasantry  in  arms 

AJl  orders  discontented — and  the  army, 
Just  in  the  moment  of  our  expectation 
Of  aidance  from  it — lo  I  this  very  army 
Seduced,  run  wild,  lost  to  all  discipline. 
Lfoosened,  and  rent  asunder  from  the  state 
And  from  their  sov'reign,  the  blind  instrument 
Of  the  most  daring  of  mankind,  a  weapon 
Of  fearful  power,  which  at  his  will  he  wields  ! 

Oct.  Nay,  nay,  friend  !  let  us  not  despair  too  sDon, 
Men's  words  are  ever  bolder  than  their  deeds  : 
And  many  a  resolute,  who  now  appears 
Made  up  to  all  extremes,  will,  on  a  sudden. 
Find  in  his  breast  a  heart  be  knew  not  of, 
Lut  but  a  single  honest  man  speak  out 
The  true  name  of  his  crime  I   Remember,  too. 
We  stand  not  yet  so  wholly  unprotected. 
Counts  Allringer  and  Galas  have  maintained 
Their  little  army  faithful  to  its  duty, 
And  daily  it  becomes  more  numerous. 
Nor  can  he  take  us  by  surprise  :  you  know, 
I  hold  him  all  encompassed  by  my  listeners. 
Whate'er  he  does,  is  mine,  even  while  'tis  doing — 
No  step  so  small,  but  instantly  1  hear  it. 
Yea,  his  own  mouth  discloses  it. 

Ques.  'Tis  quite 

Incomprehensible,  that  he  detects  not 
The  foe  so  near  ! 

Oct.  Beware,  you  do  not  think. 

That  I  by  lying  arts,  and  complaisant 
Hjpocrisy,  have  skulkd  into  his  graces; 
Or  with  the  sustenance  of  smooth  professions 
Nourish  his  all-conliding  friendship  I     No^ 
Compelled  alike  by  prudence,  and  that  duty 
Which  we  all  owe  our  country,  and  our  sovereign. 


To  hide  my  genuine  feelings  from  him,  yet 
Ne'er  have  1  duped  him  with  hase  counterfeits 

Ques.  It  is  the  visible  ordinance  of  heaven. 

Oct.  I  know  not  what  it  is  that  so  attracts 
And  links  him  both  to  me  and  to  my  son. 
Comrades  and  friends  we  always  were — long  habit, 
Adventurous  deeds  performed  in  compauy, 
\iid  all  those  many  and  various  incidents 
Which  store  a  soldier's  memory  with  aflections, 
Had  bound  us  long  and  early  to  each  other — 
Yet  I  can  name  the  day,  when  all  at  once 
His  heart  rose  on  me,  and  his  confidence 
Shot  out  in  sudden  growth.     It  was  the  morning 
Before  the  memorable  fight  at  Liitzncr. 
Urged  by  an  ugly  dream,  I  sought  him  out, 
To  press  him  to  accept  another  charger. 
At  distance  from  the  tents,  beneath  a  tree, 
I  found  him  in  a  sleep.     When  I  had  waked  him, 
And  had  related  all  my  bodings  to  him, 
Long  time  he  stared  upon  me,  like  a  man 
Astounded  ;  thereon  fell  upon  my  neck. 
And  manifested  to  me  an  emotion 
That  far  outstripped  the  worth  of  that  small  sen'ice. 
Since  then  his  confidence  has  followed  me 
With  the  same  pace  that  mine  has  fled  from  him. 

Ques.  You  lead  your  son  into  the  secret  ? 

Oct.  No ! 

Ques.     What  ?  and  not  warn  him  either  what  bad  hand8 
His  lot  has  placed  him  in  ? 

Oct.  I  must  perforce 

Leave  him  in  wardship  to  his  innocence. 
His  young  and  open  soul^-dissimulation 
Is  foreign  to  its  habits  !     Ignorance 
Alone  can  keep  alive  the  cheerful  air, 
The  unembarrassed  sense  and  light  free  spirit, 
That  make  the  Duke  secure. 

Qi/cs.  {anxiously.)  My  honored  friend !  most  highly  do  I  deem 

Of  Colonel  Ficcolomini — yet — if 

Reilect  a  httle 

Oct.  I  must  venture  it. 

Htish  ! — There  he  romen  I 


Scene  IV. — Max,  Piccdomim,  Octavio  Piccolomim^ 


Max.  Ha  !  there  he  is  himself.    Weloome,  my  father ! 

[He  embraces  hisfat?ier.     As  he  turns  round  he  observes 
Questenberg,  and  draws  lack  with  a  cold  €Usd  reserred 
You  are  engaged,  I  see.     I'll  not  listurb  you. 

Oct.  How,  Max.  ?  Look  closer  at  this  visitor  ; 
Attention,  Max.,  an  old  friend  merits — ^Reverence 
Belongs  of  right  to  the  envoy  of  3'our  sovereign. 

Max.  {drily.)  Von  duestenborg ! — ^Welcome — if  you  Inriiig  with 
Aught  good  to  our  head-quarters. 

Ques.  {seizing  his  liand.)         Nay,  draw  not 
Your  hand  away.  Count  Piccolomini ! 
Not  oil  mine  own  account  alone  I  seized  it. 
And  nothing  common  will  I  say  therewith. 

[  Taking  the  hands  of  both, 
Octavio — Max.  Piccolomini  I 

0  saviour  names,  and  full  of  happy  omen  ! 

Ne'er  will  her  prosperous  genius  turn  from  Austria, 
While  two  such  stars,  with  blessed  influences 
Beaming  protection,  shine  above  her  hosts. 

Max.  Hey  I — Noble  minister  I     You  miss  your  part. 
You  came  not  here  to  act  a  pancg}'ric. 
You're  sent,  I  know,  to  find  fault  and  to  scold  us — 

1  must  not  be  beforehand  'with  my  comrades. 

Oct.  {to  Max.)  He  comes  from  court,  where  people  are  not  quita 
So  well  contented  with  the  Duke,  as  here. 

Max.  What  now  have  they  contrived  to  find  out  in  him  ? 
That  he  alone  determines  for  himself 
What  he  himself  alone  doth  understand  ? 
Well,  therein  he  does  right,  and  will  persist  in't. 
Heaven  never  meant  him  for  that  passive  thing 
That  can  be  struck  and  hammered  out  to  suit 
Another's  taste  and  fancv.     He'll  not  dance 
To  every  time  of  ever)'  minister. 
It  goes  against  his  nature — he  can't  do  it- 
He  28  possessed  by  a  comtuawOAiv^  «^\t\\.. 


A.nd  his  too  is  the  station  of  command. 

And  well  for  us  it  is  so  !     There  exist 

Few  fit  to  rule  themselves,  but  few  that  use 

Their  intellects  intelligently. — Then 

Well  for  the  whole,  if  there  be  found  a  man, 

Who  makes  himself  what  nature  destined  him. 

The  pause,  the  central  point  to  thousand  thousands — 

Stands  fixed  and  stately,  like  a  firm-built  column. 

Where  all  may  press  with  joy  and  confidence. 

Now  such  a  man  is  Wallenstein  ;  and  if 

Another  better  suits  the  Court — ^no  other 

But  such  a  one  as  he  can  serve  the  army. 

Ques.  The  army  ?  Doubtless ! 

Oct.  {aside  to  Questcnberg.)  Hush !  suppress  it,  friend  I 
Unless  some  end  were  answered  by  the  utterance. — 
Of  him  there  you'll  make  nothing. 

Max.  In  their  distress 

They  call  a  spirit  up,  and  when  he  comes, 
Straight  their  flesh  creeps  and  quivers,  and  they  dread  him 
More  than  the  ills  for  which  they  called  him  up. 
The  uncommon,  the  sublimOf  must  seem  and  be 
Like  things  of  every  day. — But  in  the  field. 
Ay,  tJiere  the  Present  Being  makes  itself  felt. 
The  personal  must  command,  the  actual  eye 
Examine.     If  to  be  the  chieflain  asks 
All  that  is  great  in  nature,  let  it  be 
Likewise  his  privilege  to  move  and  act 
In  all  the  correspondencies  of  greatness. 
The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives^ 
He  must  invoke  and  question — not  dead  boods, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers. 

Oct.  My  son !  of  those  old  narrow  ordinances 
Let  us  not  hold  too  lightly.     They  are  weights 
Of  priceless  value,  which  oppressed  mankind 
Tied  to  the  volatile  will  of  their  oppressors. 
For  always  formidable  was  the  league 
And  partnership  of  free  power  with  free  will. 
The  way  of  ancient  ordinance,  though  it  winds 
Is  yet  no  devious  way.     Straight  forward  goes 
The  lightning's  path,  and  straight  the  feai^A  ^«A>[i 


Of  the  cannon-ball.     Direct  it  flies  and  rapid, 

•Shattering  that  it  niay  reach,  and  shattering  what  it 

My  son !  the  road,  the  human  being  travels, 

That,  on  vrhich  blessing  comes  and  goes,  doth  follow 

The  river's  course,  the  valley's  pla}'ful  windings, 

Curves  round  the  corn-field  and  the  hill  of  vines. 

Honoring  the  holy  bounds  of  property  I 

And  thus  secure,  though  late,  leads  to  its  end. 

Ques,  0  hear  your  father,  noble  youth  !  hear  l^m 
Who  is  at  once  the  hero  and  the  man. 

Oct.  My  son,  the  nursling  of  the  camp  spoke  in  thee  I 
A  war  of  fifleen  years 
Hath  been  thy  education  and  thy  school. 
Peace  hast  thou  never  witnessed  !     There  exists 
A  higher  than  the  warrior's  excellence. 
In  war  itself  war  is  no  ultimate  purpose. 
The  vast  and  sudden  deeds  of  violence. 
Adventures  wild,  and  wonders  of  the  moment, 
These  are  not  they,  my  son.  that  generate 
Tlie  Culm,  the  Blissful,  and  the  enduring  Mighty ! 
Lo  there  I  the  soldier,  rapid  architect  I 
Builds  his  light  town  of  canvass,  and  at  once 
The  whole  scene  moves  and  bustles  momently, 
With  arms  and  neighing  steeds,  and  mirth  and  quarrel 
The  motley  market  fills  ;  the  roads,  the  streams 
Are  crowded  with  new  freights,  trade  stirs  and  hurries  ! 
But  on  some  morrow  morn,  all  suddenly, 
The  tents  drop  down,  the  honle  renews  its  march. 
Dreary,  and  solitary  as  a  church-yard 
The  meadow  and  down-trodden  seed-plot  lie, 
And  the  year's  harvest  is  gone  utterly. 

Max.  0  let  the  Emperor  make  peace,  my  father  ! 
Most  gladly  would  I  give  the  blood-stained  laurel 
For  the  first  violet  of  the  leatless  spring. 
Flunked  in  those  quiet  fields  where  I  have  journeyed  ! 

Oct.  What  ails  thee  I     What  so  moves  thee  all  at  onoo  1 

Max.  Peace  have  I  ne'er  beheld  ?  I  have  beheld  it. 
From  thence  am  I  come  hither  :  0  !  that  sight. 
It  glimmers  still  before  me,  like  some  landscape 
Left  in  the  distance, — some  deV\c%0M*  \^wdAt;j.^\ 


My  road  conducted  me  through  coimtries  where 

The  war  has  not  yet  reached.     Life,  life,  my  father — 

My  venerahle  father,  life  has  charms 

Which  tve  have  ne*er  experienced.     We  have  bicn 

But  voyaging  along  its  barren  coasts, 

I^ike  some  poor  ever-roaming  horde  of  pirates, 

That,  crowded  in  the  rank  and  narrow  ship, 

Plouse  on  the  wild  sea  with  wild  usages, 

Nor  know  aught  of  the  main  land  but  the  bays 

Where  safeliest  they  may  venture  a  thieves'  landing. 

Whate'er  in  the  inland  dales  the  land  conceals 

Of  fair  and  exquisite,  O  !  nothing,  nothing. 

Do  we  behold  of  that  in  our  rude  voyage. 

Oct.  {attentive  nnth  an  ajypearance  of  uneasiness.)  And  so 
your  journey  has  revealed  this  to  you  ? 

Max^  'Twas  the  first  leisure  of  my  life.     O  tell  me, 
What  is  the  meed  and  purpose  of  the  toil, 
The  painful  toil,  which  robbed  me  of  my  youth, 
Left  me  a  heart  unsouled  and  solitar}', 
A  spirit  uninformed,  unornamented. 
For  the  camp's  stir  and  crowd  and  ceaseless  larum, 
The  neighing  war-horse,  the  air-shattering  trumpet, 
Tho  unvaried,  still  returning  hour  of  duty, 
Word  of  command,  and  exercise  of  arms — 
There's  nothing  here,  there's  nothing  in  all  this 
T.>  satisfy  the  heart,  the  gasping  heart  I 
Mere  bustling  nothingness,  where  the  soul  is  not — 
This  can  not  be  the  sole  felicitv, 
These  can  not  be  man's  best  and  only  pleasures. 

Oct.  Much  hast  thou  learnt,  my  son,  in  this  short  journey. 

Max.  0  !  day  thrice  lovely  !  when  at  length  the  soldier 
Returns  home  into  life  ;  when  he  becomes 
A  fellow  man  among  his  fellow-men. 
The  colors  are  unfurled,  the  cavalcade 
Marshals,  and  now  the  buzz  is  hushed,  and  hark! 
Now  the  soft  peace-march  beats,  home,  brothers,  home  I 
The  caps  and  helmets  are  all  garlanded 
With  green  boughs,  the  last  plundering  of  the  fields. 
The  city  gates  fiy  open  of  themselves, 
They  need  no  longer  tho  petard  to  tear  iVicm. 


The  ramparts  are  all  filled  with  men  and  women* 
"With  peaceful  men  and  women,  that  send  onwards 
Kisses  and  welcomings  upon  the  air. 
Which  they  make  hreezy  with  afiectionate  gestures. 
From  all  the  towers  rings  out  the  meny  peal, 
The  joyous  vespers  of  a  bloody  day. 

0  happy  man,  O  fortunate  !  for  whom 

The  well-known  door,  the  faithful  arms  are  open. 
The  faithful  tender  arms  with  mute  embracing. 

Qu€S.  {apparently  mtich  affected.)  0  !  that  you  should  ^^peak 
Of  such  a  distant,  distant  time,  and  not 
Of  the  to-morrow,  not  of  this  to-day. 

Max.  {turning  round  to  him  quick  and  vehement.)  Whem 
lies  the  fault  but  on  you  in  Vienna  ? 

1  will  deal  openly  with  you,  duestenberg. 
Just  now,  as  first  I  saw  you  standing  here, 
(ril  own  it  to  you  freely)  indignation 
Crowded  and  pressed  my  inmost  soul  together. 
'Tis  ye  that  hinder  peace,  ye  I — and  the  warrior, 
It  is  the  warrior  that  must  force  it  from  you. 

Ye  fret  the  General's  life  out,  blacken  him, 

Hold  him  up  as  a  rebel,  and  Heaven  knows 

What  else  still  worse,  because  he  spares  the  Saxons, 

And  tries  to  awaken  confidence  in  the  enemy ; 

Which  yet's  the  only  way  to  peace  :  for  if 

War  intermit  not  during  war,  Jiow  then 

And  whence  can  peace  come  ? Your  own  places  fah  on  you  \ 

Even  as  I  love  what's  virtuous,  hate  I  you. 

And  here  make  I  this  vow,  here  pledge  myself; 

My  blood  shall  spurt  out  for  this  Wallenstein, 

And  my  heart  drain  ofi,  drop  by  drop,  ere  ye 

Shall  revel  and  dance  jubilee  o'er  his  ruin.  [Exit. 

Scene  V. — Qnestenbcr^,  Octavio  Piccolomini. 

Ques.  Alas,  alas  !  and  stands  it  so  ? 

I  Then  in  pressijig  and  intjniiit  ni  tones. 
What,  friend  !  and  do  we  let  him  go  away 
In  this  delusion — let  him  go  away  ? 
Not  call  him  back  immediately,  not  open 
His  eyes  upon  the  spot.  ** 


Oct,  {recovering  himself  out  of  a  deep  study.)  He  has  now 
opened  mine, 
And  I  Bee  more  than  pleases  me. 

Ques,  What  is  it  ? 

Oct.  Curse  on  this  journey  ! 

Ques,  But  why  so  ?  What  is  it? 

Oct.  Come,  come  along,  friend  !  I  must  follow  up 
The  ominous  track  immediately.     Mine  eyes 
Are  opened  now,  and  I  must  use  them.     Come  ! 

[Draws  Qucstenbcrg  on  mth  him, 

Ques.  What  now  ?    Where  go  you  then  ? 

Oct.  To  her  herself. 

Ques.  To 

Oct.  (interrupting  him  and  correcting  himself)  To  the  Duke. 
Come,  let  us  go — Tis  done,  'tis  done, 
I  see  the  net  that  is  thrown  over  him. 

0  !  he  returns  not  to  me  as  he  went. 
Qu€S.  Nay,  hut  explain  yourself. 

Oct.  And  that  I  should  not 

Foresee  it,  not  prevent  this  journey !  Wherefore 
Did  I  keep  it  from  him  ? — You  were  in  the  right. 

1  should  have  warned  him  !     Now  it  is  too  late. 

Ques.  But  wJiaVs  too  late  ?     Bethink  yourself,  my  friend, 
That  you  are  talking  ahsolutc  riddles  to  me. 

Oct.  {more  collected.)  Come  I — to  tlie  Duke's.     'Tis  clos^  upon 
the  hour 
Which  he  appointed  you  for  audience.     Come  I 
A  curse,  a  threefold  curse,  upon  this  journey  ! 

[He  leads  Questenbcrg  of. 

Scene  VI. — Cluinges  to  a  spacious  cliamber  in  tlte  lumse  of  the 
Duke  of  Friedland. — Seruafits  employed  in  putting  the 
tables  and  chairs  in  order.  During  this  enters  Seni,  like 
an  old  Italian  doctor,  in  blacky  arul  clotJud  sometcluit  fan- 
tastically. He  carries  a  white  staff,  tcith  which  he  marks 
out  tf^e  quarters  of  the  Jicaven. 

1»^.  Set.  Come — to  it,  lads,  to  it !    Make  an  end  of  it.  I  hear 
the  sentry  call  out,  *•  Stand  to  your  arms  *."     Tlic^j  V\\V  \*6^«^ 
in  a,  minute. 

numb.,'     Seiiweu' 


Scene  VII. — Wallenstein,  Duchess, 

Wal.  You  went  then  through  Vienna,  were  presented 
To  the  (iueen  of  Hungary  ? 

Ditch.  Yes,  and  to  the  Empress  too. 

And  by  both  Majesties  were  we  admitted 
To  kiss  the  hand. 

Wal.  And  how  was  it  received, 

That  I  had  sent  for  wife  and  daughter  hither 
To  the  camp,  in  winter  time  ? 

Duch.  I  did  even  that 

Which  you  commissioned  me  to  do.     I  told  them. 
You  had  determined  on  our  daughter's  marriage, 
And  wished,  ere  yet  you  went  into  the  field. 
To  show  the  elected  husband  his  betrothed. 

'[Val.  And  did  they  guess  the  choice  which  I  had  made  .' 

Duch.  They  only  hoped  and  wished  it  may  have  fallen 
Upon  no  foreign  nor  yet  Lutheran  noble. 

Wal.  And  you — what  do  you  wish,  Elizabeth  ? 

Duch.  Your  will,  you  know,  was  always  mine. 

Wal.  (after  a  pause.)  Well  then, 

And  in  all  else,  of  what  kind  and  complexion 
W'as  your  reception  at  the  Court  ? 

[The  Duchess  casts  Jier  eyes  on  tlu:  ground  nndrcnuiins  ^i- 
Hide  nothing  from  me.     How  were  you  received  ? 

Duch.  0 !  my  dear  lord,  all  is  not  what  it  was. 
A  cankerworm,  my  lord,  a  canker  worm 
Has  stolen  into  the  bud. 

Wal.  Ay !  is  it  so  ! 

What,  they  were  lax  ?  they  failed  of  the  old  respect  ? 

Duch.  Not  of  respect.     No  honors  were  omitted. 
No  outward  courtesy  ;  but  in  the  place 
Of  condescending,  coniidential  kindness. 
Familiar  and  endearing,  there  were  given  me 
Only  these  honors  and  that  solemn  courtesy. 
Ah  I  and  the  tenderness  which  was  put  on, 
It  was  the  guise  of  pity,  not  of  favor. 
No  !  Albrecht'tf  "wife,  Duke  Albrechl'B  pfxuc^A^  vf\fe> 


Count  Harrach's  noble  daughter,  should  not 
Not  wholly  80  should  she  have  been  receiTed. 

Wal.  Yes,  yes  ;  they  have  ta'en  offence.     My  latest  cwidiict 
They  railed  at  it,  no  doubt. 

Ihich.  0  that  they  had ! 

I  have  been  long  accustomed  to  defend  you. 
To  heal  and  pacify  distempered  spirits. 
No  ;  no  one  railed  at  you.     They  wrapped  them  up, 
O  Heaven  I  in  such  oppressive,  solemn  silence! — 
Here  is  no  every-day  misunderstanding, 
No  transient  pique,  no  cloud  that  passes  over ; 
Something  most  luckless,  most  unhealable, 
Has  taken  place.     The  Q,ueen  of  Hungary 
Used  formerly  to  call  me  her  dear  aunt, 
And  ever  at  departure  to  embrace  me — 

Wal.  Noic  she  omitted  it  ? 

Ditch,  {if 't ping  aicaij  her  tairs  after  a  pause.)     She  dtd  em- 
brace me, 
But  then  first  when  I  had  already  taken 
My  fonnal  leave,  and  when  the  door  already 
Had  closed  upon  me,  then  did  she  come  out 
In  haste,  as  she  had  suddenly  bethought  herself, 
And  pressed  me  to  her  bosom,  more  with  anguish 
Than  tenderness. 

Wal.  {seizes  her  hand  soothinj^hj.)  Nay,  now  collect  yourselt 
And  what  of  Eggeiiberg  and  Lichtenstein, 
And  of  our  other  friends  there  ? 

Duck,  {slui kins  her  head.)     I  saw  none. 

Wal.  Th'  Ambassador  from  Spain,  who  once  was  wont 
To  plead  so  warmly  for  me  ? — 

Duck.  Silent,  silent  I 

Wal.  These  suns  then  are  eclipsed  for  us.     Hencefonn'ard 
Must  we  roll  on,  our  fire,  our  own  light. 

Duch.  And  were  it — were  it,  my  dear  lord,  in  that 
Which  moved  about  the  Court  in  buzz  and  whisper. 
But  in  the  country  let  itself  be  heard 
Aloud — in  that  which  Father  Lamormain 
In  suudry  hints  and 

Wal.  {eagerly  )  Lamormain  !  what  said  he  ? 

Duch.  That  vou'ro  accwseOi  o^  \\«lnv\\^  <5L^\\w^^>i 


O'erstepped  the  powers  intrusted  to  you,  charged 

With  traitorous  contempt  of  th*  Emperor 

And  his  supreme  behests.     The  proud  Bavarian, 

He  and  the  Spaniards  stand  up  your  accusers — 

That  there's  a  storm  collecting  over  you 

Of  iar  more  fearful  menace  than  that  former  one 

Which  whirled  you  headlong  down  at  Regenspurg. 

And  people  talk,  said  he,  of Ah ! — 

[Stifling  eoUreme  emotion. 

Wal.  Proceed ! 

Duch.  I  can  not  utter  it ! 

Wal.  Proceed ! 

Duch,  They  talk 

Will  Well! 

Dtich.  Of  a  second 

[  Catches  her  voice  and  Iiesitates, 

Wal.  Second 

Duch.  More  disgraceful 

Wal.  Talk  they  ? 

[Strides  across  the  room  in  vehement  agitation. 
0 !  they  force,  they  thrust  me 
^ith  violence,  against  my  own  will,  onward ! 

Duch.  {presses  near  to  him,  in  entreaty.)  0 !  if  there  yet  be 
time,  my  husband  !  if 
By  giving  way,  and  by  submission,  this 
Can  be  averted — my  dear  lord,  give  way  ! 
Win  down  your  proud  heart  to  it !     Tell  that  heart, 
It  is  your  sovereign  lord,  your  Emperor 
Before  whom  you  retreat.     0 !  let  no  longer 
Low  tricking  malice  blacken  your  good  meaning 
With  abhorred  venomous  glosses.     Stand  you  up 
Shielded  and  helmed  and  weaponed  with  the  truth, 
And  drive  before  you  into  uttermost  shame 
These  slanderous  liars !     Few  firm  friends  have  we— - 
You  know  it ! — the  swifl  growth  of  our  good  fortune 
It  hath  but  set  us  up,  a  mark  for  hatred. 
What  are  we,  if  the  sovereign's  grace  and  favor 
t9tand  not  before  us  ? 


Scene  YIII. —  the  Countess  Tertsky,  leading  in  her  hamu 
Uie  Princess  Thelda,  richly  adorned  tciih  briUiants.  CcmnL 
ess,  Thekla,  Wallenitein,  Duchess. 

Coun,  How,  sister  ?     What !  already  upoQ  basineas  ! 

[Observing  tfie  countenance  of  the  Duchess. 

And  business  of  no  pleasing  kind  I  see, 
Ere  he  has  gladdened  at  his  child.     The  fir9t 
Moment  belongs  to  joy.     Here,  Friedland  !  father  ! 
This  is  thy  daughter. 

[  Thekla  approaches  icith  a  shy  and  timid  air,  and  bend* 
herself  as  about  to  kiss  his  hand.    He  receives  lier  in 
his  arms,  and  remains  standing  for  some  time  lost  iji 
thefreling  ofJier  presence. 
Wal.  Yes !  pure  and  lovely  hath  hope  risen  on  nie  : 
I  take  her  as  the  pledge  of  greater  fortune. 

Ditch.  'Twas  but  a  little  child  when  you  departed 
To  raise  up  that  great  army  for  the  Emperor  : 
And  after,  at  the  close  of  the  campaign, 
AVhcn  you  returned  home  out  of  Pomerania, 
Your  daughter  was  already  in  the  convent. 
Wherein  she  has  remained  till  now. 

Wai.  The  while 

We  in  the  field  here  gave  our  cares  and  toils 
To  make  her  great,  and  fight  her  a  free  way 
To  the  loftiest  earthly  good  ;  lo  I  mother  Nature 
Within  the  peaceful  silent  convent  walls 
Has  done  her  part,  and  out  of  her  free  grace 
Hath  she  bestowed  on  the  beloved  child 
The  godlike  ;  and  now  leads  her  thus  adorned 
To  meet  her  splendid  fortune,  and  my  hope. 

Duck,  {to  Thekla.)  Thou  would&t  not   have  recognized  thj 
Wouldst  thou,  my  chil<l  ?     She  counted  scarce  eight  yeani. 
When  last  she  saw  your  face 

Thek.  0  ves.  ves,  mother  I 

At  the  first  glance  I — My  father  is  not  altered 
The  form  that  stands  before  me,  falsifies 
No  feature  of  the  image  that  hath  livtd 
80  long  within  me  ! 


Wal.  The  voice  of  my  child ! 

[  Then  after  a  pause, 
I  was  indignant  at  my  destiny 
That  it  denied  me  a  man-child,  to  be 
Heir  of  my  name  and  of  my  prosperous  fortune, 
And  re-illume  my  soon  extinguished  being, 
In  a  proud  line  of  princes. 
1  wronged  my  destiny.     Here  upon  this  head 
So  lovely  in  its  maiden  bloom  will  I 
Let  fall  the  garland  of  a  life  of  war, 
Nor  deem  it  lost,  if  only  I  can  wreathe  it 
Transmitted  to  a  regal  ornament. 
Around  these  beauteous  brows. 

[He  clasps  her  in  his  arms,  as  I*iccolofnint  enters. 

Scene  IX. — Enter  Max.   Piccolomim,  and  some  time  ajtcr 
Count  Tertsky,  the  otJiers  remaining  as  before. 

Coun.  There  comes  the  Paladin  who  protected  us. 

Wal.  Max. !  Welcome,  ever  welcome  !     Always  wert  thou 
The  morning  star  of  my  best  joys  ! 

Max.  My  General 

Wal.  'Till  now  it  was  the  Emperor  who  rewarded  the«, 
I  but  the  instrument.     This  day  thou  hast  bound 
The  father  to  thee,  Max.  I  the  fortunate  father. 
And  this  debt  Friedland's  self  must  pay. 

Max.  My  prince  I 

You  made  no  common  hurry  to  transfer  it. 
I  come  with  shame  :  yea,  not  without  a  pang  ! 
For  scarce  have  I  arrived  here,  scarce  delivered 
The  mother  and  the  daughter  to  your  arms, 
But  there  is  brought  to  me  from  your  equerry 
A  splendid  richly-plated  hunting-dress, 

So  to  remunerate  mo  for  my  troubles 

Yes,  yes,  remunerate  me !     Since  a  trouble 
ft  must  be,  a  mere  office,  not  a  favor 
Which  I  leaped  forward  to  receive,  and  which 
I  came  already  with  full  heart  to  thank  you  for. 
No  !  'twas  not  so  intended,  that  my  business 
Should  be  my  highest  best  good  fortune ! 

VOL.  VII.  Y 



open  hurryingttf. 
Coin,  (to  Max.)  Remanerate  your  tmnUa  I     Ftvlwjoy 
He  nukes  you  recompeiue.     'Tb  not  anfittiiig 
For  you.  Count  Picootomini,  to  feel 
So  tenderly — my  brather  it  bewwnw 
To  show  UmMlf  forever  great  and  princely. 

T%ek.  Then  I  too  muBt  faaTe  Bcraplea  of  Itia  lore : 
For  his  mnnificent  band*  did  omainent  me 
Bre  yet  the  father's  heart  had  spoken  to  me. 

JICiz.  Yea ;  'tis  his  nature  erer  to  he  giving. 
And  making  happy. 

[He  grasps  the  hand  of  the  Duchett  mtk  tliU  incwan^ 

How  my  heart  ponn  ont 
Its  all  of  thanks  to  him  :  0 !  how  I  seem 
To  ntler  all  tfaioga  in  the  dear  nanw  Friedland. 
While  I  shall  live,  so  long  will  I  remain 
The  captive  of  this  name :  in  it  shall  bloom 
My  every  fortune,  every  lovely  hope. 
Inextricably  as  in  some  mngic  ring 
In  this  name  hath  my  destiny  charm-bound  me ! 

Court,  (tpho  during  this  lime  has  been  anximisiy  tmtckinf 
the  Duke,  arul  remarks  t/ial  he  is  lost  in  thnvg}u  orer  the  let- 
ters.)    &Iy  brother  wishes  us  to  leave  him.      Come. 

Wal.  {t)ir?ts  himself  round  quick,  collects  himself,  and  tpeakt 
vrtth  cheerfulness  to  the  Duchess.)     Ooce  more  I  bid  thee  wel- 
come to  the  camp, 
Then  art  the  hostess  of  this  court.     You,  Max.. 
Will  now  again  administer  your  old  office. 
While  we  perform  the  sovereign's  business  here 

[Max.  Piccolomini  offers  the  Duchess  his  arm,  the  Countta 
accompanies  the  Princess. 
Ter.  {calling  after  him.)  Max.,  we  depend  on  seeing  yoa  al 
the  meeting. 

Scene  Ti—WalUnslein,  Count  Tcrlsky. 
Wal.  (in  deep  thought  to  himself.)  She  hath  .seen  all  tbiogi 
as  they  are— It  is  so, 
Aad  squares  coiapleleVf  -wilb  tiv;  o>.\mi  wiVvevi. 


They  have  determined  finally  in  Vienna, 

Have  given  me  my  successor  already  ; 

It  is  the  King  of  Hungary,  Fenlinand, 

The  Emperor's  delicate  son  I  he's  now  their  savior, 

He's  the  new  star  that*8  rising  now  I     Of  us 

They  think  themselves  already  fairly  rid, 

And  as  we  were  deceased,  the  heir  already 

Is  entering  on  possession — Therefore — ilespalch  I 

[As  lie  turns  round  he  observes  Tcrts/ci/,  and  gives  Him  a 
Count  Altringer  will  have  himself  excused, 
And  Galas  too — I  like  not  this  I 

Ter.  And  if 

Thou  loitcrest  longer,  all  will  fall  away, 
One  following  the  other. 

Wal.  Altringer 

Is  master  of  the  Tyrole  passes.     I  must  forthwith 
Send  some  one  to  him,  that  he  let  not  in 
The  Spaniards  on  rnc  from  the  Milanese. 

Well,  and  the  old  Scsin,  that  ancient  trader 

In  contraband  negotiations,  lie 

Has  shown  himself  again  of  late.     What  brings  he 

From  the  Count  Thur  ? 

Ter.  The  Count  communicates. 

He  has  found  out  the  Swedish  chancellor 
At  Halberstadt,  where  the  convention's  held, 
Who  says,  you've  tired  him  out,  and  that  he'll  have 
No  further  dealings  with  you. 

Wid.  And  why  so  ? 

Ter.  He  says,  you  arc  never  in  earnest  in  your  speeches, 
That  you  decoy  the  Swede.? — to  make  fools  of  them. 
Will  league  yourself  with  Saxony  against  them. 
And  at  last  make  yourself  a  riddance  of  them 
With  a  paltry  sum  of  money. 

W(d.  So  then,  doubtless, 

Yes,  doubtless,  this  same  modest  Swede  expects 
That  I  shall  yield  him  some  fair  German  tract 
For  his  prey  and  booty,  that  ourselves  at  last 
On  our  own  soil  and  native  territory, 
M117  he  no  huger  our  own  iords  and  maHteTftl 

fiOtt  THE  ricooLOMiin: 

Aa  excuUeut  scheme  '.     2f o .'  no '.     They  murt  be  ofl^ 
OIT,  off',  away  !  ire  want  no  Buch  neighbon. 

Ter.  Xay,  yield  them  up  that  dot,  that  speck  of  UnA— 
It  goes  not  trom  your  jwrtion.     If  you  win 
The  game,  ivhal  matlers  it  to  you  who  pays  it  7 

ffal.  OiTwiih  Ihcm.  oir!  Thou  undeisUnd'st  not  tfau. 
Xurci  Ehall  it  he  eslJ  of  me,  I  parcelled 
iUy  native  land  away,  digiiicmbered  Germany, 
Betrayed  it  to  a  lureigner,  in  order 
To  come  with  stealthy  tread,  and  filch  away 
My  own  share  of  the  plunder — Xever !  never ! — 
So  foreign  power  shall  strike  root  in  the  empire. 
And  least  of  all,  these  Goths,  these  hunger- woItcb, 
AVho  tend  such  envious,  hot  and  greedy  glanceii 
T' wards  the  rich  bJe*siiigs  of  our  German  lands  I 
I'll  have  their  uiil  to  east  and  draw  my  nets, 
i!ut  not  a  Miigle  li«h  uf  :ill  the  draught 
Shall  Ihey  come  in  \'«i. 

Tcr.     '  Yon  will  deal,  however. 

More  lairly  with  the  KJaxons'?  They  lose  patience 
While  you  ^hiti  ground  and  innki.'  ^  many  cnrvos. 
r>ay,  to  what  purgxise  all  these  masks  !  Your  friends 
Are  plunged  in  ilouhls.  balDihl  and  led  astray  in  yon. 
There's  Uxeustein.  there's  Arnheiiu — neither  know^ 
What  he  shonld  think  of  your  procrasliuatious. 
And  in  the  end  I  prove  the  liar  ;  all 
Paf-'e?  through  ine,  I  have  nut  even  yonr  hand -wri tin l'. 

It'll/.   1  H^jr/ give  my  hand-writing  :   ihou  knowest  it. 

Tit.  But  how  can  it  be  kiioi'-ii  thai  yon'ru  in  earnest. 
If  the  act  follows  not  n]Kiii  the  wordf 
You  must  yourself  acknowk-d<!.>.  that  in  all 
Y'oiir  intercourses  hitherto  wiili  ilie  enemy 
You  mii;ht  have  duiue  wilh  Palely  ail  you  have  done. 
Had  yon  meant  nothing  Inrlher  than  to  guil  him 
V'or  the  Emiiernr's  service. 

ICh/.   yn/lrr  u  jtaiisr   ilaiin^  triiirli    lie   looks   narrotriv 
Tcrf^l:;/)  And  from  whence  dost  liiou  know 
That  I'm  no'  gnllinz  him  for  the  Kmperors  service? 
Whence  knowest  thou  that  Im  not  gulling  all  of  you  ? 
Dost  thou  know  me  so  well  t  When  made  1  thev 


The  intendant  of  my  secret  purposes? 

I  am  not  conscious  that  I  ever  opened 

My  inmost  thoughts  to  thee.     The  Emperor,  it  is  true, 

Hath  dealt  with  me  amiss  ;  and  if  I  would, 

I  could  repay  him  with  usurious  interest 

For  the  evil  he  liath  done  me.     It  delisfhts  me 

To  know  my  power  ;  but  whether  I  shall  use  it, 

Of  that,  I  should  have  thought  that  thou  couldst  speak 

No  wiser  than  thy  fellows. 

Ter.  So  hast  thou  always  played  thy  game  with  ns. 

[Enter  llio. 

Scene  XI. — Illo,  Wallejistciji,  Tertsky, 

Wal.  How  statid  affairs  without  ?     Are  they  prepared  ? 

lllo.  You'll  find  them  in  the  very  mood  you  wish. 
They  know  about  the  Emperor's  requisitions, 
And  are  tumultuous. 

Wal.  How  hath  Isolan 

declared  himself? 

lUo.  He's  yours,  both  soul  and  body, 

Since  you  built  up  a^ain  his  Faro-bank. 

Wal.  And  which  way  doth  Kolatto  bend  ?  Hast  thou 
Made  sure  of  Tiefenbach  and  Deodate  ? 

lllo.  What  Piccolomini  does,  that  they  do  too. 

Wal.  You  mean  then  I  may  venture  somewhat  with  them? 

lUo.  — If  you  arc  assured  of  the  Piccolomini. 

Wal.  Not  more  assured  of  mine  own  self 

Tcr.  And  vet 

I  would  you  trusted  not  so  much  to  Octavio, 
The  fox ! 

Wal.  Thou  teachest  me  to  know  my  man  ? 

Sixteen  campaigns  I  have  made  with  that  old  warrior. 
Besides,  I  have  his  horoscope. 
We  both  are  born  beneath  like  stars — in  short 

[  With  an  air  of  mystery. 
To  this  belongs  its  own  particular  aspect. 
If  therefore  thou  canst  warrant  me  the  rest 

lUo.  There  is  among  them  all  but  this  one  voice, 
You  must  not  lay  down  the  command.     I  hear 
They  mean  to  send  a  deputation  to  you. 

MO  TBS  FlOOOIiOllIlfi: 

Wat-  If  I'm  ia  aught  to  bind  myidf  to  tlmn. 

They  too  miut  bind  themselves  to  me. 

lOo.  or  ooons. 

Wal.  Their  words  of  honor  thaj  must  give,  their-oatt^ 
Give  them  in  writing  to  me,  promiNog 
Devotion  to  my  tervice  vncoiiditiotial. 

Ilia.  Why  not  ? 

Ter.                     Devotion  utuonditiomai  ? 
The  exception  of  their  duties  tow&tds  AnstiiA 
They'll  olway*  place  among  the  premises. 
With  this  reserve 

Wal.  (ihaking  ftii  head.)  AW  unamditwual .' 
Ko  premisses,  no  reserves. 

2Uo.  A  thought  has  stmck  me. 

Does  not  Count  Tertsky  give  us  a  set  banquet 
This  evening  ? 

Ter.  Yes  ;  and  all  the  Generals 

Have  been  iuviteJ. 

Illo.  (to  WallemJcin)  Say,  will  you  here  fullj 
Commissiou  me  to  uec  my  own  discrelion  ? 
I'll  gain  fur  you  ihc  Uciierals'  words  of  honor, 
Even  as  you  wish. 

Wal.  Gain  mc  their  signatures  I 

How  you  come  by  them,  that  is  your  concern. 

Illo.  And  if  I  bring  it  to  you,  black  on  white. 
That  aU  the  leaders  who  are  present  here 
Give  themselves  up  lo  you,  without  condition  ; 
Say,  will  you  then — llicn  will  you  show  youraelT 
In  earnest,  and  with  some  decisive  action 
Make  trial  of  your  luck  I 

Wal.  The  signatures  I 

Gaiu  me  the  signatures. 

Illo.  Seize,  seize  the  hour 

Ere  it  slips  from  you      t>e]cIom  comes  the  moment 
I[i  life,  which  is  indeed  sublime  and  weighty. 
To  make  a  great  decision  possible, 
0  '.   many  thingn,  all  transient  anil  all  rapid. 
Must  meet  at  once  :  and,  haply,  they  thtis  met 
May  by  that  confluence  be  enforced  lo  p;iuse 
Time  long  enough  for  wisdom,  though  too  short. 


Far,  far  too  short  a  time  for  doubt  and  scruple  ! 

This  is  that  moment.     See,  our  army  chieftains, 

Our  best,  our  noblest,  are  assembled  around  you, 

Their  kinglike  leader  I     On  your  nod  they  wait. 

The  single  threads,  which  here  your  prosperous  fortune 

Hath  woven  together  in  one  potent  web 

Instinct  with  destiny,  0  let  them  not 

Unravel  of  themselves.     If  you  permit 

These  chiefs  to  separate,  so  unanimous 

Bring  you  them  not  a  second  time  togellier. 

'Tis  the  high  tide  that  heaves  the  stranded  ship. 

And  every  individual's  spirit  waxes 

In  the  great  stream  of  multitudes.     Behold 

They  arf*  still  here,  here  still !     But  soon  the  wai 

Bursts  them  once  more  asunder,  and  in  small 

Particular  anxieties  and  interests 

Scatters  their  spirit,  and  the  sympathy 

Of  each  man  with  the  whole.     He,  Avho  to-day 

Forgets  himself,  forced  onward  Avith  the  stream, 

Will  become  sober,  seeing  but  himself, 

Feel  only  his  own  weakness,  and  with  speed 

Will  face  about,  and  march  on  iu  the  old 

High  road  of  duty,  the  old  broad-trodden  road, 

And  seek  but  to  make  slielter  in  good  plight. 

Wal.  The  time  is  not  yet  come. 

Ter.  So  you  say  always, 

But  when  will  it  be  time  ? 

Wal.  When  I  shall  say  it. 

Illo.  You'll  wait  upon  the  stars,  and  on  their  hours, 
Till  the  earthly  hour  escapes  you.     0,  believe  me. 
In  your  own  bosom  are  your  destiny's  stars. 
Confidence  in  yourself,  prompt  resolution. 
This  is  your  Venus  I  and  the  sole  malignant, 
Thaonly  one  that  harmeth  you  is  doubt. 

Wal,  Thou  speakest  as  thou  understand'st.     How  oft 
And  many  a  time  Tve  told  thee,  Jupiter, 
That  lustrous  god,  was  setting  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  visual  power  subdues  no  mysteries  ; 
Mole-eyed,  thou  may'st  but  burrow  in  the  earth, 
Blind  as  that  subterrestrial,  who  with  wan 

Builds  iteelf  up  .  on  ^,^j 

Hove  „p  „,„,  j„;_,^^  ^^^^  1^ ' 
Tlje  drdfs  ii,  u,,.  ,,,^,.,^,^ 
The  central  sm,  with  eve 
™  ■""'''"'■  8'«Jihil,l„n 
[J/c  lailis  acros3  / 

rh.d.,„d  „,■,,,„_, 

ui  sowing  and  of  han-tst 

"" '■"«■"■' -oof.,;, 

,"'?''•'' "'l'eda,Ha„j„, 
™«iit»  ,t  bohooves  ,-.  ,„  . 

J"  "■•tch  the  .t.„,  „,„,;,; 

A"d  trace  „„h  ,ea„.|,i„.  e„ 

Wi-bcheencn.j.f  °    ' 

™.ii  not.  maljgiiant, 

1^0  yon  your  part.      A..-,.,  i 


S.ENE  XII. —  Wallensteifiy  Tertsky,  Illo, —  To  them  enter  QueS' 
f e fiber g,   Octavio,  and  Max.  Piccolomini,  Butler,  Isolani, 
MaradaSj  and  three  other  Generals.      IVallenstein  tnotiom 
Questenher^,  who  in  consequence  takes  tlie  cliair  directly  op 
}iosite  to  him  ;  the  others  follow,  airanging  themselves  accord 
ing  to  tlieir  ranrz.     2'here  reigns  a  momentary  silence. 

Wal    I  have  understood,  'tis  true,  the  sum  and  import 
Of  youi  instructions,  duestenberg  ;  have  weighed  them, 
And  Ibrmed  my  final,  absolute  resolve  ; 
Yet  it  seems  fitting,  that  the  generals 
Should  hear  the  will  of  the  Emperor  from  your  mouth. 
jMay't  please  you,  then,  to  open  your  eonimission 
Before  these  noble  chieilains. 

Qucs.  I  am  ready 

To  obey  you  ;  but  will  first  entreat  your  Highness, 
And  nil  these  noble  chieftains,  to  consider. 
The  imperial  dignity  aud  sovereign  right 
Speaks  i'rom  my  mouth,  and  not  my  own  presumption. 

^V(U.  We  excuse  all  preface. 

Ques.  When  his  Majesty 

The  Emperor  to  his  courageous  armies 
Presented  in  the  person  of  Duke  Friedland 
A  most  experienced  and  renowned  commander, 
He  did  it  in  glad  hope  and  confidence 
To  give  thereby  to  the  fortune  of  the  war 
A  rapid  and  ausi)icious  change.     The  onset 
Was  favorable  to  his  royal  wishes. 
Bohemia  was  delivered  from  the  Saxons, 
The  Swede's  career  of  conquest  cheeked  !     These  laud» 
Bejran  to  draw  breath  freelv,  as  Duke  Friedland 
From  all  the  streams  of  Germany  longed  hither 
The  scattered  armies  of  the  enemy, 
Hither  invoked  as  round  one  magic  circle 
The  Rhinegrave,  Bernhard,  Banner,  Oxenstirn, 
Yea,  and  that  never-conquered  King  himself; 
Here,  finally,  before  the  eye  of  Niirnberg, 
The  fearful  game  of  battle  to  decide. 

Will    May't  please  you  to  the  point. 

Ques    In  Niiniber^g's  camp  the  S\vevV\^\\  tuow^tc\v\«?^ 


His  fiume — in  Liitxen'i  plaina  hU  life.     Bat  who 

8tood  Dot  aatounded,  vhen  viclorioiu  Fnedlmnd 

After  this  day  of  triiiroph,  ihU  proud  day, 

Uuched  towaid  Bohemia  with  the  apeod  of  fligbt, 

Aod  vanished  from  the  theatre  of  war ; 

While  the  young  Weimar  faera  forced  hii  way 

Into  Franconia,  to  the  Danuhi,  like 

Some  delving  winter  stream,  which,  where  it  nuhes. 

Mokes  its  own  channel ;  with  such  Buddca  ipeed 

He  marched,  and  now  at  once  Tore  Hegemputg 

Stood  to  the  affnght  of  all  good  Catholic  Chriatiaoa. 

Then  did  Bavaria's  wetl-deservit^  Prince 

Entreat  swift  aidance  in  his  extreme  need  ; 

The  Emperor  sendu  seven  honeroen  to  Duke  Friedland, 

Seven  horsemen-courion  tend*  he  with  the  entreaty  : 

He  superadds  his  own,  and  supplicates 

\Vfaere  as  the  sovereign  lord  he  can  command 

In  vain  his  Eupplication  !     Al  this  moment 

The  Duke  hcare  unly  his  old  hate  and  grudge, 

Uarters  the  general  good  to  grutity 

Private  revenge — and  so  fall^  Regenspurg. 

JVal.  Max.,  to  what  pericid  of  the  war  alludes  ho  ? 
ily  recollection  i'a'tlt  me  liejc. 

Max-  He  means 

When  we  were  in  Silesia. 

jyaL  Ay  !     Is  Jt  so  ! 

But  w  hat  liod  we  lo  do  there .' 

Mii.r.  To  beat  out 

The  Suedes  acid  i^axons  from  the  provin<v. 

Wai.  True, 

In  that  description  which  the  minister  gave 
I  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  whole  war. 
(To  Qiiesicnber^.)  Well,  but  proceed  a  little. 

Ques.  Yes !  at  len^h 

Beside  the  river  Oder  did  the  Duke 
A«sert  his  ancient  fame.     Upon  the  fields 
Of  Stciuau  did  the  tSwedes  lay  down  llieir  arms. 
Subdued  without  a  blow.     Aud  here,  with  others. 
The  rightcousnesB  of  Heaven  to  his  avenger 
Dehvend  that  long-pracVwe<i  aViirex-Q? 


Of  inaurrection,  that  curae-laden  torch 
And  kindlur  o{  this  war,  Matthias  ThuT. 
Dut  ho  had  fallen  into  maj^naiiimoua  hands  ; 
Instead  of  puiiishincut  he  found  reward, 
And  with  rich  presents  <Ii(l  the  Duke  dismiu 
The  arch-foe  of  his  Emperor, 

Will,  {laughs.)  I  know, 

know  you  had  already  in  Vienna 
Your  windo^^'■  and  balivtnies  all  forestalled 
To  see  him  on  the  executioner's  cart. 
I  might  have  lost  the  battle,  lost  it  too 
Witli  infamy,  and  still  retained  your  graces— 
But,  to  havo  cheated  iheni  of  a  spectacle. 
Oh !  t/tat  the  good  tbiks  of  Vienna  never, 
Ko,  never  can  forgive  me. 

Qua.  So  Silesia 

Was  freed,  and  all  things  loudly  called  the  Duk« 
Into  Bavaria,  now  pressed  hard  on  all  sides. 
And  he  did  put  hie  troops  in  motion  :  slowly, 
(luiie  at  his  ease,  and  by  the  longest  road 
He  traverses  Bohemia ;  but  ere  ever 
He  hath  once  seen  the  enemy,  faces  round, 
Creaks  up  the  march,  and  takes  to  winter  quarteia. 

Wal.  The  troops  were  pitiably  destitute 
Of  every  necCHsary.  every  comfort. 
The  winter  came-     What  thinks  his  Majesty 
His  troops  are  made  ol'l     Arii't  we  men  i  subjected 
Like  other  men  to  wet  and  cold,  and  all 
The  circumstances  of  necessity  ? 
U  miserable  lot  of  tho  poor  soldier ! 
Wherever  he  conies  in,  all  fleo  before  him, 
And  when  he  «:oes  away,  the  general  curse 
yellows  him  on  hia  route.     All  must  be  seized, 
Nothing  is  given  him.     And  compelled  to  seize 
I'rorn  every  man,  he's  every  man's  abhorrence. 
Heliold,  hero  stand  my  Generak     KaralTa ! 
ConnlDeodiilc!  Butler  I  Tell  this  man 
Miiw  lonp  ihe  soldiers'  pay  ia  in  arrears. 

Jiut.  Already  a  full  year. 

ff'/t/.  And  'tis  the  >i\i« 

81S  THE  FIOOOLOltlin: 

That  CMiBtitutea  tb«  hiteling's  naina  uid  dutiea. 
The  MldioT'i  jiay  U  the  Kidier'i  coeenamt.* 

Qutt.  Ah  t  thU  i(  &  &r  other  tone  fnnn  tha^ 
la  which  the  Duke  epolte  eight,  nine  yean  ago. 

Wtd.  Yes !  'tis  my  bnll,  I  kaow  it :  I  myaoh 
Save  spoilt  the  Emperor  hj  indulging  him- 
Nine  yean  ago,  during  the  J)ani>h  war, 
[  raited  hitn  up  a  force,  a  mif^ty  force, 
Por^  or  fifty  thousand  men,  that  cost  him 
Of  bis  own  pune  no  doit     Through  Saxony 
The  fury  goddess  of  the  war  marched  on. 
E'en  to  the  eurf-rocks  of  the  Baltic,  bearing 
The  terron  of  his  name.     That  was  a  time ! 
In  the  whole  Imperial  realm  no  name  like  mine 
Honored  with  festival  and  celebration — 
And  Albrccht  Wallenstein,  it  was  the  title 
Of  the  third  jewel  in  his  cmwn  ! 
But  at  the  Diet,  when  the  Princes  met 
At  Regeiisimr^.  there,  there  the  whole  hroke  out. 
There  'twas  laid  open,  therL-  it  was  made  known 
Out  of  what  money-bag  I  had  paid  the  host. 
And  what  was  now  my  thank,  what  had  I  now 
That  1,  a  faithful  servant  of  the  sovereign, 
Had  loaded  on  my»?lf  the  people's  curses. 
And  let  the  Princes  of  the  empire  pay 
The  expenses  of  this  war,  that  aimrandizes 
The  Emperor  alone — What  thanks  had  1 '. 
What  ?     I  was  ollered  up  to  their  complainU. 
Dismissed,  dc^aded ! 

Qucs.  But  your  Hi^huoes  knows 

What  Utile  freedom  he  posseseeU  of  action 
In  that  disostrons  diet. 

*  Tbt  original  is  not  traoBlatsble  into  Eiij;lisli ; 

Und  Biin  «o/«l 

iiat  deal  widatttt  vrrtlca.  darnscU  beitst  « 
U  nuf^t  p«i*hspa  liave  beeo  thus  rendered : 

"  And  that  for  vhich  be  sold  bis  services, 
Tlie  saUier  intisl  itonve." 
Bat  a  Use  or  doublfal  etynwAngj  «  nm  toot*  vVaa  ».  a*a.>i*. 


Wul.  Death  and  hell ! 

/  had  that  which  could  have  procured  him  freedom. 
No  !     Since  'twas  proved  so  inauspicious  to  mo 
To  serve  the  Emperor  at  the  empire's  cost, 
I  have  heen  taught  far  other  trains  of  thinking 
or  the  empire,  and  the  diet  of  the  empire. 
From  the  Emperor,  doubtless,  I  received  this  staff, 
But  now  I  hold  it  as  the  empire's  general — 
For  the  common  weal,  the  universal  interest. 
And  no  more  for  that  one  man's  aggrandizement ! 
But  to  the  point,     "^^'hat  is  it  that's  desired  of  me  ? 

Qucs.  First,  his  imperial  Majesty  hath  willed 
That  without  pretexts  of  delay  the  army 
Evacuate  Bohemia. 

Wal.  In  this  season  ? 

And  to  what  quarter,  wills  the  Emperor, 
That  we  direct  our  course  ? 

Ques.  To  the  enemy. 

His  Majesty  resolves,  that  Rcgcnspurg 
Be  purified  from  the  enemy,  cro  Easter, 
That  Luth'ranism  may  be  no  longer  preached 
In  that  cathedral,  nor  heretical 
Defilement  desecrate  the  celebration 
Of  that  pure  festival. 

Wal.  My  generals. 

Can  this  be  realized  ? 

Illo.  'Tis  not  possible. 

lint.  It  can't  be  realized. 
Qucfi.  The  Emperor 

Already  hath  commanded  colonel  SSuys 
To  advance  toward  Bavaria  I 

Wal  AVhat  did  Suys  ? 

Qttcii.  That  which  his  duty  prompted.     He  advanced  I 
Wal.  What  ?  he  advanced  I     And  I,  his  general. 
Had  given  him  orders,  peremptory  orders, 
Not  to  desert  his  station  !     Stands  it  thus 
With  my  authority  ?     Is  this  th'  obedience 
Due  to  my  office,  which  being  thrown  aside 
No  war  can  be  conducted  ?     Chieftains,  &^QlVl\ 
You  be  thejudgef,  generals  I     What  (\eaeTve» 

Thftt  officer,  who  of  his  oath  tiBgleBtfiil 
b  guil^  of  contempt  of  oiden  1 

Bto.  {raising  his  wntx,  at  all  but  lUo  had  rtmaJMed  aOmt, 

and  seemingly  xrupitloiu.)  De*Ui. 

Wal.  Count  Piccolomini !  wh&t  hu  he  dcMrvcd  T 

Max,  Pic.  {after  a  ttmg  patue.)  AccordiDg  to  ths  tetlcr  of  Am 

lio.  Death. 

But.  Death,  bj  the  laws  of  war. 

[Quntenberg  rixsffmn  his  teat,  WaUetutan  faUowt ;  m& 
the  rest  rite. 

Wat.  To  this  the  law  condemiu  him,  and  not  I. 
And  if  I  ahow  him  favoi,  'twill  ariae 
From  the  rev'ience  that  I  owe  my  Emperor. 

Ques.  If  so,  I  can  say  nothing  further — here.' 

IVal.  I  accepted  the  command  but  on  conditioo*! 
And  this  the  first,  that  to  the  diminution 
Of  my  authority  no  human  being. 
Not  even  the  Emperor's  self,  should  be  entitled 
To  do  aught,  or  to  say  aught,  with  the  anuy. 
If  1  stand  warranter  of  the  event. 
Placing  my  honor  and  my  head  in  pledge, 
Needs  must  I  have  full  mastery  in  all 
The  means  thereto.     What  rendered  thus  Gustavua 
Beaistless,  and  unconquere'l  upon  earth  ? 
This — that  ho  was  the  monarch  in  his  army ! 
A  monarch,  one  who  is  indeed  a  monarch. 
Was  never  yet  subdued  but  by  bis  equal. 
But  to  tlic  point !     The  best  is  yet  to  come. 
Attend  now,  generals ! 

Qufs.  The  Prince  Carilinal 

Begins  his  route  at  the  approach  of  spring 
From  the  Milanese  ;  aud  leads  a  Spanish  army 
Through  Germany  into  the  Kelherlands. 
That  he  may  march  secure  and  unimpeded, 
'Tis  th'  Emperor's  will  you  grant  him  a  clelaizhment 
t>f  eight  horse-regiments  from  the  army  here. 

Wal.  Ye«,  yes !  I  understaad ', — Eight  ragiments  !     Well, 
Right  well  roncerted,  fatbet  Iatoottowxi'. 


Eight  thousand  horso  !     Yes,  yes  !     'Tis  as  it  should  be  I 
I  see  it  coining. 

Qu^s.             There  is  nothing  coming. 
All  stands  in  front :  the  counsel  of  state-prudence, 
The  dictate  of  necessity ! 

WcU.  What  then  ? 

What,  my  Lord  Envoy  ?     May  I  not  not  be  sufiereU 
To  understand  that  folks  arc  tired  of  seeing 
The  sword's  hilt  in  my  grasp  :  and  that  your  court 
iSuatch  eagerly  at  this  pretence,  and  use 
The  Spanish  title,  to  drain  off  my  ibrces. 
To  lead  into  the  empire  a  new  army 
Uiisubjected  to  my  coutrol.     To  throw  me 
Plumply  aside, — I  am  still  too  powerful  for  you 
To  venture  that.     My  stipulation  runs. 
That  all  the  Imperial  forces  shall  obey  me 
Where'er  the  German  is  the  native  language. 
Of  Spanish  troops  and  of  Prince  Cardinals 
That  take  their  route,  as  visitors,  through  the  empire, 
There  stands  no  syllable  in  my  stipulation. 
No  syllable !     And  so  the  politic  court 
Steals  in  a-tiptoe,  and  creeps  round  behind  it , 
First  makes  me  weaker,  then  to  be  dispensed  with. 
Till  it  dares  strike  at  length  a  bolder  blow 
And  make  short  work  with  me. 
What  need  of  all  these  crooked  ways,  Lord  Envoy  I 
Straight-forward,  man  !     His  compact  with  me  pinches 
The  Emperor.     He  would  that  I  moved  off! — 
Well  I — 1  will  gratify  him  I 

[Here  there  commences  an  agitation  among  the  Genet  alt 
tvhich  increases  continually. 
It  grieves  me  for  my  noble  officers'  sakes  ! 
I  see  not  yet,  by  what  means  they  will  come  at 
The  moneys  they  have  advanced,  or  how  obtain 
The  recompense  their  services  demand. 
Still  a  new  leader  brings  new  claimants  forward, 
And  prior  merit  superannuates  quickly. 
There  serve  here  many  foreigners  in  th*  army. 
And  were  the  man  in  all  else  brave  and  gallaat, 
1  WBB  not  wont  to  make  nice  scrutlay 


AfU?r  his  pedigree  or  calechiMn. 

I'his  will  be  otherwise,  i'  the  time  to  come. 

Well — me  no  longer  il  concerns.  [Be  seats  himsiif. 

Max.  Pic.  Forbid  it,  Heaven,  that  it  should  come  to  this ! 
Our  troops  will  swell  in  ilreadful  fermentatioD — 
The  Emperor  is  abusei) — it  can  not  be. 

Iso.  It  can  not  be  ;  all  goes  to  instant  wreck. 

Wal.   Thou  hast  said  truly,  faithful  Isolani  I 
What  ice  with  toil  and  foresight  have  built  up, 
Will  go  to  wreck — all  go  to  instant  wreck. 
What  then  ?  another  chiellain  ie  soon  found. 
Another  army  likewise  (who  dares  doubt  it  ?) 
Will  flock  from  all  sides  to  the  Emperor 
At  the  first  beat  of  his  recruiting  drum. 

[During  this  xpercli,  Isolani,  Terlsky.  Illo,  ami  Maradat 
talk  confusedly  icilh  great  agitation. 

M'lx.  I'ic.  {busilij iiml puss.ionalchj soing  fromonc  toanatiter. 
S(Ki/kh's  them.)  Hear,  my  commundcrl   Hear  me,  generals' 
Le!  me  conjure  vou,  Duke!      Determine  nothing. 
Till  we  h;ive  met  and  ^e^>^c^M;nlcll  to  yon 
Our  joint  roinimsi ranees  — Xay,  eahner  I     Friends  I 
I  hope  all  may  be  yet  set  right  again. 

Tcf.  Away  !  lei  us  away  I  in  ih'  antechamber 
Find  wc  the  others.  [they  go 

But.   {to  Questenberg.)   li"  good  counsel  gain 
Dne  audience  from  your  wistlom.  my  I>ord  Envoy  ! 
Yon  will  he  cautious  how  you  show  yourself 
III  public  for  some  hours  to  cumi? — or  hardly 
Will  that  gold  key  prelect  you  from  maltreatment. 

\C'iimiiii>lii»rs  heiiril front  iciiliout. 

Wal.  A  salutary  counwl Thou.  Oclavio  ! 

Wilt  answer  for  the  safely  of  our  irucst. 

rarewell,  Von  Uuestenberg  I        [  Qui-sleiiberg  is  about  to  spati. 

iVol  one  wonl  more  of  Inat  ileiesleii  subject  1 
You  have  performed  yonr  duly— We  know  how 
To  separate  the  olliee  from  Ihc  man. 

[As  Qucitcnberg:  is  ^oiiii:  ojj'ivilh  Cktnvio.  Goelz.  Tiet'ei*- 
back.  Kolatto,  press  in;  several  ofltcr  Genvrah  J\d 
loicin'!  ihem. 


(roefz.  Where's  he  who  means  to  rob  us  of  our  greneral  ? 
Tief.  {at  the  same  time.)  What  are  wc  forced  to  hear  ?     That 

thou  wilt  leave  us  ? 
Kol.  (at  the  same  time.)  We  will  live  with  thee,  we  will  die 

with  thee. 
Wal.  (pointing  to  Hio.)    There  I    the  Field-Marshal  knows 

our  will.  [Exit, 

[  While  all  are  going  off  the  stage,  the  curtain  drops. 


Scene  I. — A  small  Chamber. 

Illo  and  Tertsky. 

Ter.  Now  for  this  evening's  business  I     How  intend  you 
To  manage  with  the  generals  at  the  banquet  ? 

Illo.  Attend  I  '  We  frame  a  formal  declaration 
Wherein  we  to  the  Duke  consign  ourselves 
Collectively,  to  be  and  to  remain 
llis  both  with  life  and  limb,  and  not  to  spare 
The  last  drop  of  our  blood  for  him,  provided 
So  doing  we  infringe  no  oath  nor  duty. 
We  may  be  under  to  the  Einp'ror. — Mark  I 
This  reservation  we  expressly  make 
I:i  a  particular  clanse,  and  save  the  conscience. 
Now  hear !     This  formula  so  framed  and  worded 
Will  be  presented  to  them  for  jHjrnsal 
Belore  the  banquet.      No  one  will  iind  in  it 
Cause  of  oflence  or  scruple.     Hear  now  further ! 
After  the  feast,  when  now  the  vap'ring  wine 
Opens  the  heart,  and  shuts  the  eyes,  we  let 
A  counterfeited  paper,  in  the  which 
This  one  particular  clause  has  been  left  out, 
<  TO  round  for  signatures. 

Ter.  How  ?  think  you  then 

That  they'll  believe  themselves  bound  by  an  oath, 
Which  we  had  tricked  them  into  by  a  juggle  ? 

Illo.  We  shall  have  caught  and  caf^cd  l\veTCv\    \jftN.  >\\^^x^  S^«^ 
Beat  their  win  fits  bare  against  the  "w'lrea,  and  xave 


Loud  H  they  may  against  owe  treaohsiy, 
M  conrt  ifaeir  aignaturea  will  be  believed 
Far  more  than  their  moat  holy  affinnatioDi. 
Traiton  they  are,  and  ntuit  be  ;  therdbre  iriady 
Wilt  make  a  virtue  of  necenity. 

Ter.  Well,  well,  it  ahall  content  me ;  let  bat  Knnetliii^ 
Be  done,  let  only  some  deciaiTO  blow 
Set  OM  in  motion. 

nio.  Besides,  'tii  of  subordinate  importance 
How,  or  bow  far,  wb  may  thereby  propel 
The  generals.     'Tis  enough  that  we  persuade 
The  Duke,  that  they  are  hu— Let  him  but  act 
In  bia  determined  mood,  as  if  he  had  them, 
And  he  Kill  have  them.     Where  he  plangea  in, 
tie  makes  a  whirlpool,  and  all  stream  down  to  it> 

Ter.  HiB  policy  is  such  a  labyriuth. 
That  many  a  time  when  I  have  thought  mj'self 
Close  at  his  side,  he's  gone  at  once  and  left  rne 
Ignorant  of  the  ground  where  I  was  etanding. 
He  lends  the  enemy  his  ear,  permits  me 
To  write  to  them,  to  Arnheim  ;  to  iSesina 
Himself  comes  forward  bUnk  and  midiiiguiscd ; 
Talks  with  us  by  the  hour  about  his  plana, 
And  when  I  think  I  have  him^-olf  at  once — 
He  has  slipped  from  me,  and  appears  as  if 
He  had  no  scheme,  but  to  retain  his  place. 

Hlo.  He  give  up  his  old  plans  !     I'll  tell  you,  friend  1 
His  soul  is  occupied  with  nothing  else. 
Even  in  his  sleep — They  are  his  thoughls,  his  dreams, 
Tliat  day  by  day  he  questions  for  this  purpose 
The  motions  of  the  planets — 

Ter.  Ay !  you  know 

This  night,  that  is  now  coming,  he  with  Seni 
Shuts  himself  up  Jn  the  BStrotogical  tower 
Tj  make  joint  observations — for  I  hear, 
It  is  to  be  a  night  of  weight  and  crisis  ; 
And  something  great,  and  of  long  expectation, 
la  to  make  its  procession  in  the  heaven. 

JUo.  CSome  !  be  we  bald  and  make  despatch.     The  wdA 
la  tbi»  next  day  or  two  mnrt  ttov-cfe  wii  w"« 


More  than  it  has  for  years.     And  let  but  only 

Things  first  turn  up  auspicious  here  below — 

Mark  what  I  say — the  right  stars  too  will  show  themselvea. 

Corne,  to  the  generals.     All  is  in  the  glow, 

And  must  be  beaten  ^hile  'tis  malleable. 

Ter.  Do  you  go  thither,  lUo.     I  must  stay 
And  wait  here  for  the  Countess  Tertsky.     Know, 
That  we  too  are  not  idle.     Break  one  string, 
A  second  is  in  readiness. 

Ulo.  Yes!  Yes! 

I  saw  your  lady  smile  with  such  sly  meaning. 
What's  in  the  wind  ? 

Ter.  A  secret.     Hush  I  she  comes.        \Exit  Ulo, 

8ri:NE  II. — ( The  Countess  steps  out  from  a  closet.)    Count  and 

Countess  Tertsky. 

Ter.  Well — is  she  coming  ? — I  can  keep  him  back 
No  longer. 

Cofui.  She  will  be  there  instantly. 
You  only  send  him. 

Ter,  I  am  not  quite  certain 

I  must  confess  it,  Countess,  whether  or  not 
We  are  earning  the  Duke's  thanks  hereby.     You  know, 
No  ray  has  broken  from  him  on  this  jmint. 
You  have  o'erruled  me,  and  yourself  know  best. 
How  far  you  dare  proceed. 

Coun.  I  take  it  on  me. 

[  Talking  to  herself,  while  site  is  advancing. 
Here's  no  need  of  full  powers  and  commissions — 
My  cloudy  Duke  I  we  luiderstand  each  other — 
And  without  words.     What,  could  I  not  unriddle. 
Wherefore  the  daughter  should  be  sent  for  hither, 
W^hy  first  he,  and  no  other,  should  be  chosen 
To  fetch  her  hither!     This  i»ii.'iiii  of  betrothing  her 

To  a  bridegroom,*  whom  no  one  knows — No!  no  I 

This  may  blind  others !     I  see  through  thee,  Brother  ! 

•  In  Germany,  after  honorable  addresses  have  lKH*n  paitl  iwvd  ^viw^wiS^'^ 
accepted,  the  lovers  are  called  Bride  and  litu\eg;roota,  ^xwi  >\\vv>a^^  ^^a^ 
truu-riage  ahould  not  take  place  till  years  aflet'war^ 

B34  TUB  nOOOLOlUMl: 

Bnt  it  beieemt  thee  not.  to  draw  a  card 
At  Bnch  A  ^me.     Not  yet ! — It  all  Temuni 

Hutely  delivered  up  to  my  finemng 

Well — thou  shalt  not  hare  been  deoetviBd,  Dulio  FriMlUnd  ! 
Id  her  who  i«  thy  sister. 

Servant,  (enten.)  The  oommanden ! 

Ter.  {to  the   Countess.)  Take  eare  you  heat  his  fmaef  amd 
aflectioni — 
Possess  him  with  a  reverie,  and  send  him. 
Absent  and  dreaming.  Id  the  haniuet ;  that 
He  may  not  boggle  at  the  signature. 

Coutt.  Take  you  care  or  your  guests ! — Go,  send  him  hilhet. 

7Vr.  All  rests  upon  his  nndeniguing. 

Coitn.  {interrupting  him.)  Go  to  your  guests  '.  Go 

lUo.  {comes  back.)  Where  art  staying,  Tertsky  ? 
The  hoilBC  is  full,  and  all  expecling  you. 

Ter.  Instantly!  luetatitly !  {To  l)ie  Counles^.)  And  let  him 
Stay  here  too  long.     It  might  awake  suspicion 
In  the  old  roan 

floun.  A  truce  with  your  precautions! 

[ExeatU  Tertskij  and  llio. 

ScRN'E  III. — Countess,  Max.  Piccaiomini. 

Max.  {perpiitg  iit  on  the  stage,  slyly)  Aunt  Tertsky  \  may  I 

{Advances  lo  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  looks  around  him 
with  uneasiness. 

She's  not  here ! 
Where  is  she  ? 

Coun.  Look  but  somewhat  narrowly 

In  yonder  comer,  left  perhaps  she  lie 
Concealed  behind  that  screen. 

JIfrtj;.  Tnere  lie  her  gloves ! 

[Sna!ches  at  tJiem,  but  the  Countess  fakes  them  hers^J". 
You  unkind  lady  !     You  refuse  mo  this — 
You  make  it  an  amusement  to  lomient  me. 
Coun.  And  thia  the  thaulu  >jDa  ^ie  nt«  (br  mv  loiuble  ? 
Max.   0,  if  you  felt  the  opptwaina  ».\  m^  \xnA.\ 


Since  we*ve  been  here,  so  to  constrain  myself — 
With  such  poor  stealth  to  hazard  words  and  glances — 
These,  these  are  not  my  habits  I 

Coun.  You  have  still 

Many  new  habits  to  acquire,  young  friend  I 
But  on  this  proof  of  your  obedient  temper 
I  must  continue  to  ins